


Visible

by Saetha



Series: 6th Sense AU [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 6th Sense AU, 6th Sense AU Fix it, Alcohol, Angst, Fluff, Gen, Ghosts, M/M, Mortality, Relationship Talk, and discussion of mental illness, in-universe ableism, lots of talks about death, there is gonna be a happy ending though i can guaranteee that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-03 14:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8716732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: A Fix-it for (In)visible, my 6th Sense Dworin AU. How would the story go if that one event HADN'T happened? Thorin tries to come to terms with the events that have changed both his and Dwalin's life and put a strain on their relationship. Frodo, on the other hand, tries not to let his life be ruled by fear of the dead and wonders who that man is that his brain tells him should be dead and yet is not.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, I did actually write it! It won't be quite as long as the (In)visible I'm afraid and rather rambly in places, but I hope you peeps will still enjoy it! And yes, HAPPY ENDING IS PROMISED. 12 chapters, published every two days until the 23rd ;).

Thorin wakes up with a start, staring at the ceiling above him. It’s still in the middle of the night and he doesn’t quite know what it was that has awakened him so suddenly; but he can still feel the cold sweat on his skin and a faint tremble in his fingers, knowing that it wasn’t anything peaceful. His hand snakes over to the other side of the bed, touching Dwalin’s arm after a moment, his bulk comfortingly warm and close by. Thorin takes a deep breath, willing his heart to slow down as he listens to Dwalin’s reassuringly slow and regular breathing.

The pain flares up in his chest again and he clenches his teeth to keep himself from making a sound and waking Dwalin up, resisting the urge press down on the gauze and bandage over his wound. Even though it has been weeks, sometimes the seams still rip and a few flecks of blood ooze through his skin. The medical reason is probably because he has been moving too much, or maybe whoever has sown his chest shut again did an awful job, but sometimes Thorin thinks it’s simply there to remind him of the mistakes he’s made. He concentrates on Dwalin’s presence and on taking deep breaths, one after another until he loses count, although it does little to disperse his anxiety.

Dwalin murmurs something and moves, snuggling closer to Thorin’s side as if to see whether he’s still there. He’d told him the other night that for the first few nights after the shooting he had woken up and been utterly convinced that Thorin was dead and the fact that he hadn’t been able to feel him sleeping next to him had only made it worse. He has never told Thorin how he’d gotten through it, but Thorin has seen all the half-empty bottles of whiskey in their cupboard.

Something close to Thorin’s feet moves and he laughs quietly when he realises that it’s Nat, reaching out with his hand to pet her and bury his fingers in her soft fur. He wonders if Nat is staring at him again – she has seemed slightly strange ever since he has come home from hospital, watching him as if he is something supernatural, hissing at times even. It had taken her a while to become as comfortable with him as she had once been. He quietly contemplates whether she has been able to smell death on him.

With his free hand he reaches over to intertwine his fingers with Dwalin’s, just to reassure himself that this is indeed real and he isn’t dreaming. He has never told Dwalin, but a part of himself is still convinced that he is dead or that he _should be_ dead. There are memories inside his brain that shouldn’t be there, faces that he doesn’t know, words that he is sure he hasn’t spoken. It’s as if somewhere, in a different plane of existence, something entirely different took place and he wonders if he’ll ever find out what it was.

He tries to go back to sleep, but he is far too tense and still widely awake to do so. His fingers keep petting Nat’s fur who is obviously rather happy with all the attention she’s getting; and at some point during the night, Dwalin scoots even closer to him in his sleep, his arm circling around Thorin’s waist as he’s mumbling something underneath his breath. Dwalin finally opens his eyes at some point in the morning and finds Thorin looking at him, over the rim of his Kindle on which he has been reading.

“Morning.” Dwalin smiles sleepily and yawns, his eyes almost falling closed again. “Whatcha reading?”

“Good morning.” Thorin reciprocates the smile and lowers the Kindle, blinking at Dwalin over the rim of his glasses. “Just some papers I thought might be interesting.”

“On a _Sunday_?” Now there is a disbelieving tone to Dwalin’s mumbling.

“Yes,” Thorin sighs and switches the Kindle off, putting his glasses away. He bends over to kiss Dwalin on the head, hissing only slightly when the quick forward movement pull at the wound in his chest. Dwalin grumbles something and shakes his head, lifting the edge of Thorin’s bedcover to wriggle underneath it.

“I thought we’d agreed you don’t work on Sundays that I have off too,” he says with a slightly insulted tone.

“Sorry.” Thorin rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, suddenly realising how tired he still he is. It is all he can do to suppress a yawn. “I was only going to read until you woke up as well.”

“Bad dreams?” Dwalin asks him, looking concerned. Thorin shrugs, but the answer seems clear enough to Dwalin and he reaches upwards to rest his hand lightly on Thorin’s chest over the place where he has been shot, trailing upwards and finally tugging at his hair to signal his husband to lean in more closely.

Thorin obliges and scoots a little closer, stretching out his arm so he can let his fingers slide through Dwalin’s beard. Dwalin rumbles something under his breath and winds a few strands of Thorin’s hair around his finger.

“Wanna tell me?” he asks softly. He has made the offer many times before, whenever Thorin has jumped up in bed at night or when there was a strange noise outside. Strange – as a man of his profession Thorin should know that speaking about it is the first step that has to be taken towards healing, but for some reason he simply cannot bring himself to tell Dwalin about everything that ran around in his head.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” he says with an apologetic smile.

“Well, I’m used to your incoherent ramblings. And we’ve got all day.” Dwalin is smiling, too, but there is a serious air around him. Thorin punches him lightly, but then goes back to petting Nat who is now lying between them. They both know that he always does this when he’s nervous or agitated about something, as a way to distract himself from what he should actually be doing.

“I don’t know.” Thorin shakes his head again, unsure of what he can say and how he can say it. How do you tell your husband, the man you love and have promised to be together with until the end of your lives, that you feel like you should be dead without hurting them?

Dwalin says nothing, just looks up and watches him, one hand patting Nat as well as he is waiting for an answer. Thorin knows he’s not going to leave the bed without giving at least a halfway convincing answer. With a sting in his heart he remembers how they have sworn to be always honest with each other – they both know that without communication, a relationship is usually doomed to fail. He takes a deep breath, hoping that Dwalin will listen, maybe even understand. His fingers unconsciously dig deeper in Nat’s fur.

“Sometimes…” he is fumbling for words already, frowning in annoyance before he begins again. “Sometimes I feel like things are not right. Shifted. As if…as if I should be somewhere else.”

He pauses, trying to collect his thought as wondering how to phrase the next part.

“And where would that be?” Dwalin looks up at him with seriousness in his eyes.

“I don’t know.” Thorin shakes his head. The answer is technically right, although he does know _what_ he should be. “But it feels as if the world has stopped and taken a breath and somehow lurched onto a new path that wasn’t meant to be.”

Dwalin frowns, but remains silent at Thorin’s words this time, waiting for him to continue. Thorin takes another deep breath, forcing out the words that are hardest to say.

“Remember how the doctors told us that it was basically a miracle that I survived? And that I was clinically dead for several minutes before they brought me back? I think somewhere, somewhere that’s exactly what happened. I died.”

Silence settles on the room after Thorin has finished speaking. Finally Dwalin reaches out and one of his hands clasps Thorin’s knee.

“But you’re alive,” he says roughly and for a moment, all the pain he had been in during the moment where Thorin had been dying and his long recovery breaks through again.

“I know.” Thorin grips Dwalin’s hand and squeezes it. “And I’m glad. But it’s as if…there is a second me somewhere who wasn’t so lucky.”

Dwalin shakes his head and looks at him, worry in his eyes. Thorin wonders if he should tell him more, tell him about the part about this that has always disturbed him most, but for now he decides against it. Dwalin looks shaken enough as it is and Thorin doesn’t need him to doubt his sanity any further. He is doing it rather well himself already.

“Are you sure that this isn’t just…shock or something from what happened? The same way that we now keep a light on in the room at night and the bedroom door locked when we’re not there?”

“I don’t know,” Thorin shrugs. But of course he does. It’s different. He keeps telling himself that over and over again, has to believe it, because the alternative seems to frightening at the moment to consider.

“Sorry for making you worry about this,” he adds after a moment of hesitation. He tries to smile in Dwalin’s direction and only half succeeds. The worry doesn’t disappear from Dwalin’s face; on the contrary, the frown between his brows deepens.

“Don’t apologise for something like that. _For good things and bad_ , remember?” Dwalin fingers the wedding band on his hand and Thorin smiles briefly at the memory of their vows. “If we can’t make it through times like these together, then how much is our happiness really worth?”

Thorin reaches out and grasps his hand, the one with the wedding ring on it. He kisses Dwalin’s knuckles gently, one by one until he can hear a quiet laugh from his husband.

“You should have become the academic, not me,” he says with a little smile. Ten years ago Dwalin would have probably taken the jokes amiss, reminding him of all the opportunities he never had simply for not growing up in the ‘right’ area and with the ‘right’ people. At first he had always been convinced that Thorin was secretly making fun of him not having such a high education as him. Once Thorin had ensured him multiple times, however, that he truly thinks that Dwalin is just as intelligent as him, Dwalin had taken the compliments and jokes at exactly what they were – jokes.

“Nah. Never been patient enough to read the entire time, like you do. I also don’t look half as good when wearing reading glasses.” Dwalin grins.

“That last part is certainly a lie,” Thorin retorts. He has seen Dwalin wearing glasses once or twice, mostly when he tried out Thorin’s reading glasses to see whether he would need some himself. In his opinion, Dwalin with glasses looks _utterly_ fetching. So much, in fact, that he’s been considering getting him some without any strength to the lenses, just for the effect. Dwalin would probably even say yes; they’ve tried far stranger things in bed before.

Dwalin grins cheekily and pulls his hand out of Thorin’s grip, only to run it through the long strands of Thorin’s hair instead. Then his gaze turns serious again.

“Promise you’ll tell me if the dreams stay or get worse,” he says. “I won’t have you slip away quietly whilst I’m not looking. “

Thorin bends his neck so he can kiss the hand tangled in his hair.

“I promise,” he tells him. Then he leans over to kiss Dwalin again, more forcefully this time, enjoying the feel of his body against his and that they have all the time in the world on this lazy Sunday, one of the rare ones that Dwalin gets off work.

“Now, shall we make the most of our time in bed today?”


	2. Chapter 2

Of course, Thorin doesn’t stop thinking about it. Especially the part that he hasn’t told Dwalin about – and so, one day, he finds himself staring down a road that he has never been in but that is yet vaguely familiar, in the same way that old dreams are. He knows that a young boy lives in the tenth house down on the right, knows it even though he’s never set foot here before.

 _Frodo_. The name floats through his mind and he almost shakes his head, as if to get rid of all the thoughts inside of it. But of course they won’t leave and Thorin sighs, rubbing his eyes with his hand. It’s spring now and with the warmer temperatures the aching in his chest is slowly subsiding although he has a feeling that he will always feel the wound when it gets colder.

He leans on his cane and starts walking towards the house. Thorin walks even more slowly than necessary due to his injury where the bullet has come a tad too close to the spinal cord; there is still a part inside him that hopes that the door will open and the boy will step out. However, he has no such luck and finally he finds himself standing in front of the door, and, after a short moment of hesitation, ringing the bell.

The silence in the house is stretching out and Thorin is about to turn around and leave, when the door finally opens. He finds himself faced with middle-aged man, much shorter than him and with hair turning silver, but a sharp pair of eyes behind his glasses.

“Yes?” the man asks.

“Mister, uhm, Baggins?” Thorin glances at the name on the door to make sure he has the right one. “Apologies for my sudden interruption, but is Frodo at home?”

“No, I sent him out to buy some milk and butter for pancakes earlier.”

“Ah, I’m sorry.” Thorin feels slightly thrown off. The hazy memories in his head are telling him something very different – that there was a little boy who had been running from him and whose trust he had to gain very slowly. An abandoned cathedral somewhere and some Star Wars toys. This is different, and for a moment he feels like he’s teetering on the edge of an abyss he didn’t even know was there.

“Has something bad happened?” Then man’s brows furrow in worry and Thorin can feel how much he must love this little boy who, according to the papers he’s been able to get a look at, is actually his nephew. He doesn’t think that it makes much of a difference to Mr. Baggins, not from the way he is talking about Frodo anyway.

“No no, nothing of the sort. I was simply sent by the school to see if he is doing well.” It’s astonishing just how easily those words seem to come across Thorin’s lips – normally he hates lying. Something inside him knows, however, how important it is that he meets Frodo. It is a sense of urgency that’s in his chest that is hardly comparable to anything else. As if someone’s life depended on it. Belatedly he realises that Mr. Baggins has absolutely no idea in which capacity the school would have sent him, so he hurries to add: ”I’m a child psychiatrist. We just want to know if he’s doing well.”

Mr. Baggins frowns, the mistrust in his eyes not disappearing even as Thorin hands him his business card to underline his words. Thorin guesses that he is likely not the first person of his profession that he has met and the adoption process for Frodo with all its evaluations was probably rather gruelling. No wonder that he might not have gained the best memories from it.

“You and Frodo are in absolutely no trouble, I can assure you,” Thorin promises him. And it’s true, for the most part – from what his memory can provide him with, there had never been any trouble with Mr. Baggins and the way he behaved towards Frodo. “I would simply like to talk to him.”

“Well, he should be back any minute now.” The expression on Mr. Baggins' face has softened slightly at Thorin’s words and he steps back, opening the door a little further. “Would you like to come in and wait for him?”

“Thank you,” Thorin nods and takes a step forwards, following Mr. Baggins into the house.

“My name is Bilbo Baggins, by the way,” Bilbo says as he points to a chair at the big table in sight of the kitchen. “Nice to meet you.”

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Thorin introduces himself as well as they are shaking hands.

“Tea?” Bilbo asks, already busying himself with the kettle.

“Yes, thank you. Milk and two sugars, please,” Thorin replies with a smile. He remembers how Dwalin once asked him if he’d ever think of moving away from London, into another country maybe and if he had to be perfectly honest, he had to say no. Thorin can live without a lot of things – but English tea certainly isn’t one of them.

Bilbo nods and hums slightly to himself as he is getting out mugs, sugar and tea bags. Thorin uses the opportunity to look around the kitchen a little – it appears well stocked and cared for, definitely a place that is much used and loved by its owner.

“So, you’re a child psychologist?” he asks as they finally both sit at the table with two steaming mugs of perfectly made tea in front of them.

“Yes,” Thorin nods.

Bilbo nods and then frowns, as if he has just remembered something.

“Excuse me for being so…straight forward, but your name sounds familiar. Weren’t you in the news recently?”

Thorin looks down at the mug of tea in his hands, forcing down the small tremors inside him and trying to put a non-committal smile on his face instead.

“Yes. Although it was a rather…private matter,” he says, hoping that Bilbo will not pry any further. He has no desire to recount what happened in their home earlier this year, especially not to a complete stranger.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo hurries to say, looking rather apologetic. “How is Frodo doing in school? I hope all is going well?”

“Yes, his academic achievements are fine,” Thorin says carefully, wondering if his words are actually the truth. It suddenly hits him that if Bilbo were to simply call the school and ask after him, his lies would come back to haunt him soon and he shakes his head a little, trying to shut down the voices inside him telling him that this is a terrible idea, that he is risking his reputation for nothing but a strange hunch born out of the fevered dreams of a near-death experience. A famous child psychiatrist first shot in his own home by a former patient and then found stalking a young boy? Together with him being gay, he could already see the more than nasty headlines in the boulevard press. “We were just a little worried about his relationship with his other classmates. Has he talked to you about anything?”

“Well.” Bilbo shifts slightly on his seat and that, more than anything else, tells Thorin that he is perfectly aware that Frodo isn’t quite behaving as he should be a lot of the time. “I know he’s had some…troubles with some of the other students in his class. He doesn’t talk much, but I can still see it. Is it bad?”

“It’s… something that should be worked on, together with the school and his classmates,” Thorin replies carefully, knowing that he is moving on thin ice right now. He wishes he could remember what exactly has happened with Frodo or why it is so important that he meets him – but as much as he tries, he simply can’t. All he knows is that he has to talk to him, that there is a connection between them that can help with whatever is wrong with the boy.

“But why do you want to talk to him then? It’s his classmates that are bullying him. Shouldn’t you be talking to the perpetrators rather than the victim?” Bilbo frowns and for a moment he looks almost angry.

“Because bullying can be quite damaging, especially at so young an age,” Thorin explains. He is saved from any more uncomfortable questions when the sound of the front door opening rings through the house and Bilbo gets up from the table to go meet him. Thorin remains sitting at the table, partially to observe the interaction between Bilbo and Frodo and partially so that he can give Bilbo time to introduce him to Frodo and the idea that there is a stranger in their house right now wanting to speak to him.

“Hey, you alright?” Thorin can hear Bilbo ask. There is no answer that he can hear but then Bilbo sighs and from the sounds Thorin thinks that he is hanging up Frodo’s jacket and taking the bag with the milk and butter from him.

“Listen, Frodo…” Bilbo begins again. He fumbles for words but eventually he seems to find the right ones. “There’s someone here to talk to you. From your school.”

“Have I done something bad?” Frodo sounds so scared that it almost breaks Thorin’s heart. Frodo’s voice appears like the voice of someone who lives in perpetual fear of the world around him.

“No, no, you absolutely haven’t. Come here.” From the sounds of it Bilbo is giving Frodo a tight hug before he continues to explain the situation to him. His voice lowers to a murmur and Thorin has to strain to understand him. “Everything is fine, alright? I’m not mad at you and neither is he. He just wants to talk.”

There is the muffled sound of Frodo replying, although Thorin can’t quite hear what he is saying. Bilbo seems to be soothing him for a moment longer before there is the sound of steps in the hallway and, shortly after, Frodo and Bilbo are entering the room.

Thorin gets up from his seat at the table as he hears them approach, putting his friendliest smile on his face even though he is trembling with tension inside. He looks into Frodo’s eyes as he steps around the corner and the world splitters.

He can feel the pain of the gunshot again, lancing sharply through his chest, and for a moment the bullet’s imaginary bite is so intense that he gasps and has to lean heavily on his cane or he would have fallen. Images flash through his head, of a little boy whispering in a hospital bed, _They do not know they are dead_ , of shouting and tears, _You can’t help me_ , a dead little girl and a box, and above all, the intense blue of Frodo’s eyes, opened wide as he quivers at something that Thorin will never be able to see.

“It’s you.” Frodo’s voice is the thing that perpetrates the fog of Thorin’s thoughts and half pulls him back into reality again.

“Frodo.” Thorin doesn’t know what else to say at the moment – he is still reeling from all the flashes into a different world in his head. It all seems so real, as if he could tear the curtain between the different realities apart with his bare hands.

“Do you know him, Frodo?” Bilbo asks gently as he puts and arm around his nephew. Thorin can now see that Frodo is trembling, his eyes wide as if he has just seen a ghost.

“I saw you. You were dead.” The words are out of Frodo’s mouth before Bilbo’s mouth can stop them. The pain of the bullet wound shouts through Thorin again and he has to muster up all his strength not to press one hand against his chest. How can Frodo know? Thorin has no memories of it, but yes, he had been dead, by all the definitions of modern medicine before they had managed to revive him. Are a few minutes enough to live an entirely different life?

“I think you should leave now, Mister Oakenshield,” Bilbo says quite firmly, wrapping Frodo in his arms as the boy does not stop shaking.

Thorin barely managed to nod and press out an apology before he takes his coat and leaves the little house. He can feel Frodo’s gaze following him as he leaves and shudders. When he steps back outside again the sunshine on his skin feels almost alien.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Thorin?”

Dwalin sounds tired when he knocks on the door to Thorin’s office at home.

“Hm?” Thorin looks up as his husband enters the room and rubs his eyes. He feels exhausted, like a wrung-out rag that has been left to dry in a strange shape.

“It’s 8pm,” Dwalin says quietly and what first looked like tiredness to Thorin is now tinged with hurt and just a little bit of sadness. Thorin startles and confirms Dwalin’s words with a quick look at the bottom right corner of his laptop.

“Damn, I’m sorry.” He gets up and runs his fingers through his hair as he walks towards Dwalin. Early on during their relationship they had reached the point where Dwalin remained adamant that Thorin was working too much and that he would not constantly be put aside in favour for Thorin’s work. After more than one argument and what had arguably been the first real crisis in their relationship, Thorin had agreed to never work past 7pm on a regular work day and take all weekend days off that Dwalin had off as well – and Dwalin had, in turn, promised not to disturb him whilst he was working, unless it was an emergency. Usually Thorin remembers to finish in time – sometimes he even sets an alarm for himself to remind him to stop working. Today, he has apparently done neither.

Dwalin sighs and takes a small step back, a signal that he isn’t ready for Thorin to come close and give him the usual apologetic kiss yet.

“This was the fourth time within two weeks that you forgot,” he says accusingly. “I can understand once, even twice with everything that we’ve been through, but this much?”

Thorin almost expects him to get louder with each word, but instead Dwalin seems almost withdrawn within himself, the quiet vulnerability in his voice making it clear that he is truly hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin tells him again. He doesn’t know what else to say, but he knows he should say something – but how can he explain what is haunting him? He has been almost obsessive in trying to find cases like his own and Frodo’s, trying to sort his memories and find a rational explanation of what has happened to him and still _is_ happening to him, all whilst slowly easing back into his normal work with his patients. “It’s just…this is important.”

He hates himself for the words almost as soon as they have left his mouth.

“More important than our marriage, apparently,” Dwalin states dryly.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.” Thorin frowns, wishing they could just get this argument over with. He is tired, both his head and his chest are hurting and suddenly he wants nothing more than to sit on the sofa with a nice beer and Dwalin next to him.

“You still said it though,” Dwalin insists. Thorin sighs.

“Look, I’m truly sorry,” he tries to explain again. “But can we…talk about this tomorrow? I’m tired, everything is hurting and I don’t think I’m in a great place for a discussion right now.”

“And tomorrow you’ll say ‘no let’s do it another day’. Thorin, we’ve had this discussion before.” Dwalin’s words sting, because Thorin can hear what his husband isn’t saying out loud and maybe doesn’t even mean – that Dwalin doesn’t _trust_ him anymore. He doesn’t trust him to keep a promise that he has made and suddenly Thorin feels as if the floor has been pulled out from under his feet.

“I promise, Dwalin. Tomorrow. Truly. Just trust me one more time. _Please_.” Thorin puts as much sincerity in his voice as he can manage without sounding like he is begging. “I just-“ he shakes his head- “Not today. I’m sorry.”

“Alright.” Dwalin shrugs although it’s clear that he still isn’t mollified. “What should we make for dinner?”

Thorin looks at him and takes a step closer, hoping that Dwalin won’t move away.

“You haven’t eaten yet?” he asks him softly, more guilt welling up inside him.

“Of course not. We always have dinner together.” Dwalin looks at Thorin in what is almost disbelief and Thorin wants nothing more than to step up to him and envelop him in his arms, even though he is perfectly aware that a simple hug won’t make their problems disappear. Of course he knows that Dwalin is right – due do their different jobs they don’t always manage breakfast together and almost never lunch, so dinner has always been that one meal of the day they were having together where they can talk about everything that has happened throughout the day.

“Do you want to order some pizza then? Or would you like me to cook you something?” Thorin asks him, an offering of peace.

“We can do pizza.” It’s a sign that Dwalin accepts his offering when he doesn’t mention that it would be too late to cook anyway. Dwalin smiles, a small, tentative smile, and holds the door open so that Thorin can step out. “Shall I order Hawaii for you?”

Thorin glares at him, pretending to hit him with his walking cane.

“You know perfectly well what I think about pineapple on pizza,” he grumbles.

“Yeah I do, you heathen. My poor Pizza Hawaii…”

Thorin snorts in reply, remembering well how the first ever argument after they’d met had been about pineapple on pizza. They had agreed half-jokingly to never mention the issue again because it was, perhaps, the one topic they would never come to an agreement on. Thorin threads his hand under Dwalin’s arm and they both walk over to the living room where they fall down on the sofa, Thorin sighing as he is finally surrounded by the soft cushions and pillows. He hasn’t even noticed how stiff he had gotten during the long hours in his office chair. He yawns and watches as Dwalin pulls out his phone to call their usual delivery service. A smile quickly travels over his lips when he remembers the time almost ten years ago when the pizza delivery person had rang their doorbell right in the middle of them having sex on the living room table; none of that is going to happen tonight, but for some reason it is still one of Thorin’s fondest memories, especially for the bouts of laughter that had followed afterwards.

“Well, you just make sure that your bloody pineapple is nowhere even close to my pure sweetcorn and chicken pizza. Or I might have to throw both of you out,” Thorin teases gently. Dwalin snorts in reply and laughs when Nat comes over to bump her head against both their legs. He pats his lap and Nat jumps up, purring contentedly when they both begin petting her.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Dwalin smiles. “There’s no way you could live without my foot massages.”

“Maybe I’ll just ask that one hot physiotherapist I was assigned to do that for me then,” Thorin counters, trying to appear as serious as he can. Dwalin presses his hand on his heart as if he has been mortally wounded and gasps.

“You would _never_! He is way too scrawny to be your type anyway.” Dwalin is glowering at Thorin and Thorin just snorts.

“Wouldn’t you know,” he grins. The little bit of banter is doing them both good and helps to alleviate the tension that was between them. Both know well enough that their problem won’t be solved by some jokes and kisses, but it does remind Thorin that this is the man he loves, the man he has decided to marry and whom he trusts more than anything else in the world. There should be no reason to be afraid of the next day.

“Well, thankfully it will never come this far,” Dwalin muses. “I have graciously decided to forego the pineapple for this evening and go for the Texas BBQ pizza instead. The sacrifices I make for you…”

“I appreciate it,” Thorin winks and leans over to press a quick kiss on Dwalin’s lips. “And go order that pineapple next time. Maybe I’ll even survive it.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Dwalin murmurs, but smiles as well after a moment. “And you better. I still need you.”

“Me too,” Thorin replies. He swallows before he continues, hating it that he is about to break up their mood like that. “Look…I’m truly sorry for what happened today. Next time you should come in right on time and tell me to stop working.”

“I…have the feeling you would only be angry if I did that.” Dwalin moves away from Thorin a little and frowns slightly. “And I didn’t want that.”

“It’s not only about me. There’s two of us,” Thorin says quietly. “But I guess we’ll better…talk about it tomorrow when we’re both less tired. I just…wanted you to know. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” This time it’s Dwalin who’s pulling him close for a kiss. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. For now…let’s hope our pizza arrives soon. I’m starving.”

Thorin fights down the guilt at Dwalin’s last words and agrees with him. Dwalin laughs and, after only a moment of hesitation, threads puts his arm around Thorin’s shoulders so that he can lean into him in one of his favourite positions. He shifts his body a little so that he lies comfortably and sighs in satisfaction when Dwalin’s fingers begin to thread through his hair and start massaging his scalp.

“Where would I be without you?” he murmurs.

“In a small flat above an antique book shop somewhere with ten cats and five dogs and working all day probably,” Dwalin grins. Thorin reaches out and punches him slightly, making Dwalin laugh even more loudly.

“Don’t tempt me. At least that cats and dogs part sounds rather nice.” Thorin grumbles, pretending to be insulted.

“So you’d swap a dozen pets for me?” Dwalin asks.

“Of course I would. There’s hardly any difference, is there?” Thorin smirks. “They demand all the space in bed, never want to do any household work, want to be fed, and coddled and occasionally hiss at you. Truly, I can’t see any difference to how it’s now at all.”

Dwalin pulls lightly at Thorin’s hair and says a few choice words under his breath that Thorin pointedly overhears.

“Well, in that case it should be _you_ who’s spoiling _me_ right now, shouldn’t it.” In contrast to his words, Dwalin leans down to press a kiss on Thorin’s forehead. Thorin carefully pushes himself up and turns around, a mischievous grin on his face.

“How would you _like_ to be spoiled then?”

“Ohhhh, you want me to get creative now?” Dwalin asks mockingly. “Careful, or you might get more than you can handle…”

“Is that a challenge?” Thorin kisses him again, this time slowly and more deeply.

“Mhmmm do you want it to be?” Dwalin whispers, his fingers carding through Thorin’s hair again and caressing his cheek. Thorin laughs and leans forward until their foreheads touch. He’s far too tired to do much more than banter and some soft kissing tonight, but he knows that that will keep neither of them from gently chasing each other with words and gestures.

“I’m sure I can meet every challenge you could give me…” Thorin finally replies. They are just about to kiss again when the doorbell rings and Thorin falls back into the sofa cushions with a laugh.

“Guess our dinner is here.”

Dwalin groans as he pushes himself up from the couch and walks over to the door to get the pizza they ordered earlier. After a short moment of fighting against his tiredness Thorin limps over into the kitchen to get them some drinks, carrying the glasses back to the table one at a time.

“My challenge to you is to eat this pizza before you fall asleep today,” Dwalin yawns as he plops down on the sofa again.

“Challenge accepted,” Thorin nods, suppressing a yawn himself. “Although I’m not sure I’ll actually make it.”

“Well, then that means more pizza for me,” Dwalin says around a mouthful of his own dinner. Thorin elbows him lightly in the ribs before digging in himself. Yes, tomorrow they will talk about their problems – but for today, he’ll simply enjoy the food and his husband’s company.


	4. Chapter 4

“Frodo, are you alright?” His uncle’s voice sounds worried.

Frodo looks up to see Bilbo meeting his gaze from across the table, a frown painted on his uncle’s forehead.

“’m fine,” he murmurs, directing his gaze back down at the food in front of him. It is one of his favourites – sausages and mash, with mushy peas on the side. Bilbo doesn’t make it too often because he always makes the mash by himself and that takes a lot of time and preparation, but when he does Frodo is usually overjoyed at it.

“Don’t you like the food?” Bilbo asks worriedly. “Or did anything else happen?”

“No. Just tired.” Frodo doesn’t really want to tell his uncle about everything that’s going on in his mind – and how can he if he doesn’t understand half of it himself? Suddenly he fears that he might have insulted Bilbo by not liking his food. “I’m sorry, Uncle Bilbo.”

Bilbo sighs and forces a smile on his face.

“It’s okay, Frodo. Just…promise you’ll tell me what’s going on if anything happens? I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Yes, Uncle Bilbo.” Frodo forces himself to eat a bit of mashed potato. He knows he shouldn’t make his uncle worry even though Bilbo has told him time and time again that it’s fine for him to talk about anything that makes him unhappy. But what would he say if he truly knew? Surely he would call Frodo a crazy liar and throw him out of the house and take back the adoption and everything. Nobody wants to live with the freaks and crazy ones. At least that’s what they always say in school and on TV.

“Does it have anything to do with the strange man that came around the other day?” Bilbo asks again after a few moments of silence in which Frodo has forced himself to eat. Frodo stiffens, frantically concentrating on the food in front of him so he doesn’t have to look up and into his uncle’s face. He just shakes his head and mumbles something that he hopes his uncle will take as a ‘no’.

But of course that’s not true.

Frodo keeps thinking of him as ‘the dead man’ even though he has heard his real name. But there is no other way for him to name him – Thorin Oakenshield scares him, not like the other people that he sees, but because he is alive when Frodo inexplicably knows that he should not be. He could not explain it, even if he tried – of course he knows that Mr. Oakenshield is alive, he has seen him talk to Bilbo after all. There is a part of his brain, however, that at the same time is absolutely convinced that this man should be dead - as if Frodo has met him before, but not as a living person. The contrast is so sharp, so different in his head that he doesn’t know what to with it and so he retracts within himself in fear, hoping that if he doesn’t acknowledge it, it somehow won’t be true.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do should he ever see him again and so he can only hope that he won’t. Frodo feels his uncle’s gaze on him and knows that Bilbo doesn’t believe him. He only wishes that Bilbo won’t try to talk to Thorin Oakenshield again and involve him back in their lives.

Once they are done with their dinners Frodo helps Bilbo with clearing the plates away and cleaning up the kitchen whilst Bilbo puts it all into the dishwasher. Bilbo leaves quickly to look after the laundry in the basement and put it into the drier and Frodo waits in the kitchen for him to come back. Suddenly he begins to feel cold, goosebumps creeping up his arms out of seemingly nowhere.

“No,” he whimpers. “No, no, please, not again, no-“

He withdraws right to the edge of the kitchen until his back hits the wall and he can keep an eye on both doors. Frodo tries to make himself as small as possible and he is shivering now. A part of him wishes he’d grabbed one of Uncle Bilbo’s sharp cutting knives out of the drawers but he is sure that probably not even a knife could harm those that he sees.

The door on his right creaks and moves slightly and suddenly it’s there, the shape of a woman with a noose around her neck, craning her head as she looks at him. Frodo cries out in fear, his insides now as icy as his skin.

He has been able to see them ever since he can remember – figures walking around that the others can’t see, with grey faces and dull eyes, and often times gaping wounds. It didn’t take him long to understand that he has to keep quiet about what he sees because others never believe him. And they have terrified him for all of his life. He doesn’t know what they want, but often enough they deliberately seem to scare him and maybe, he thinks, that’s all their purpose is meant to be – scare him until he doesn’t know what to say or do anymore, loses his mind and even becomes one of them. Frodo has tried to run away from them but wherever he goes, there always seem to be more around. He shudders and presses himself closer to the wall, hoping against better judgement that she won’t notice he’s there.

She walks through the kitchen with almost determined steps and begins to open the drawers, one by one as if searching for something. Frodo tries not to breathe as she comes closer and closer to him in the process, now opening every single door she can find.  She seems to be getting more and more frantic and he can hear her muttering to herself, an angry frown on her face. Frodo wants to close his eyes but he knows she won’t go away from that. He still looks away, no longer able to stand what he’s seeing. He can feel her coming closer, can feel her wrath and the burning anger in her gaze and now she will reach out and touch him and-

“Frodo?”

He takes a deep breath and looks back at where the woman had been standing only seconds ago. She is gone and so is the cold in the room, only the hint of a frozen breeze still there. Bilbo is standing at the door towards the kitchen, some wet laundry in his arms and staring into the room.

The drawers are all open.

Frodo tries to speak but he is unable to; all that comes across his lips is a broken little sound, as if his tongue has forgotten how to form words.

“Frodo, were you searching for something?” Bilbo frowns as he looks around the kitchen. He dumps the wet pieces of laundry he was holding onto the table and comes towards Frodo, closing all the drawers and doors on his way.

Frodo simply shakes his head, still too terrified to talk.

“Someone must’ve opened those drawers though. And there is nobody else in the house.” Bilbo is still frowning. After he has managed to bring the kitchen back into its original state he hunkers down in front of Frodo, taking in his frightened gaze and the slight trembling of his hands.

“Hey,” he says, reaching out carefully to cup one of Frodo’s hands in his. Frodo doesn’t retract, but doesn’t dare to look his uncle in the eyes either. He is sure that Bilbo would throw him out of the house if he told him the truth. Nobody would ever believe something like that.

“It’s alright, Frodo. Everything’s okay now. Don’t you want to tell me what happened here? Why did you open all these drawers?”

“I didn’t-“ Frodo bites his lip. He doesn’t know what to say. He hates lying to Bilbo, but what else would he be able to do? So better stay silent. Bilbo’s brow creases and he waits for Frodo to continue talking but Frodo refuses to say anything. Finally Bilbo seems to give up on waiting for a reply any longer; he stands up and sighs, disappointment written plainly on his face.

“I thought we promised to trust each other,” he says and Frodo can tell that his uncle is truly hurt. It makes him feel even more horrible than before and he tries to bite back tears.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Bilbo.”

“Well. Make sure it doesn’t happen again. And, Frodo?” Bilbo looks at him, his stern eyes filled with sudden gentleness. “Once you feel like you’re ready to, please talk to me. I promise I won’t get mad. I promise.”

“Okay.” Frodo knows he won’t be able to hold that promise, although there as a small part inside him that won’t stop hoping that maybe, someday, he might be able to.

“Alright.” Bilbo sighs again and rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. Then he points at the wet laundry on the table, the few pieces that can’t go into a tumble dryer and will have to be hung up separately. “Do you want to help me with those? We’ll have to carry them upstairs and put them up on the drying rack.”

Frodo nods and reaches up to take hold of Bilbo’s hand. Some people at school have been laughing at him that he is still holding his uncle’s hand and so he has stopped to do so almost completely when they are outside; but here at home, when he is this scared, he still takes advantage of his uncle’s reassuring warmth. Bilbo gives him a smile and points at the mountain of wet laundry on the table.

“Here, first of all we’ll have to divide up the stuff we have. I’ll take the jeans and you’ll take the dish towels, alright?”

“Yeah.” Frodo nods and tries to concentrate firmly on the feeling of the wet cloth under his fingers, so that he would forget the ghost he has seen in their kitchen. He follows his uncle up the stairs with a bundle of wet dish towels slung over his arms, balancing them carefully so that they won’t drop.

They like to keep their laundry rag in a little used room on the upper floor, especially during summer when they are able to open the windows. The heat can go a long way to help their clothes dry.

Bilbo and he work in almost perfect synchronicity, Frodo handing him the wet clothes and Bilbo putting them up on the drying rack. The repeated task helps Frodo to calm his nerves, take his mind off the question when the next ghost would appear and haunt him. He wonders what they want and why he never can seem to be able to get rid of them, no matter how many religious symbols he accumulates in the hidden nooks and crannies of his room. He feels slightly betrayed by the fact that none of them seem to help and it makes him think that maybe the people who have claimed to see ghosts in the past actually haven’t. And if they had, they were probably murdered, just like those poor people he has seen in a documentary on TV the other day.  He is quite sure that Uncle Bilbo would never have approved of him watching it, but that doesn't help the images in his mind to go away.

Sometimes he dreams that a ghost would come and be nice to him, would try and help him. A friendly ghost, not one with a smashed head or slashed neck, but one that is looking after him and helps him deal. He wishes there would be some kind of magic that would make this ghost help appear, but no matter how much and how many deities he prays to, it just never seems to happen. Maybe, one day, things will be different.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you at this point to everyone who's reading this and especially those of you who are leaving comments so tirelessly! Thank you so so much - I promise I'll get around to replying all of them once I'm less busy <33333.

Thorin looks over at Frodo's house and frowns.

He has to forcibly keep himself from treading back and forth nervously like he used to as a young kid back in school (he can still remember Frerin making fun of him for it) and assume a normal stance. There is a feeling somewhere in his stomach like a pit of snakes roiling around and he wonders when the last time was that he had felt this nervous. Thorin knows that Frodo will have to come out sooner or later to go to school. He simply has to try and meet him again. It isn't so much a question of wanting to, but rather one of having to - like an invisible rope has been spanned between them and is pulling them together, bit by bit.

As he looks around one of the biggest worries in his mind is what Frodo's neighbours would think about someone like him standing at the street side and waiting for a young boy to come out. It could easily ruin his reputation when interpreted wrongly, but somehow he doesn't care. He wonders what Dwalin would say about it.

At the thought of Dwalin one of his fists clenches in his pocket. They haven't really talked to each other in two days now - ever since that faithful morning where they had promised to finally have a proper conversation which had been supposed to solve things between them. If he closes his eyes he can still hear their heated argument.

It had started well enough - with a self-made breakfast and their favourite coffee in the morning. Then, however, Dwalin had looked at him expectantly as if Thorin would simply spill everything out in front of him. The silence between them had lengthened and grown uncomfortable until Thorin was unable to bear it any longer.

"I don't know where to start," he had said quietly.

"How about at the beginning? The night that we got back from Oxford?"

"You know what happened then. I don't...I don't really care to remember again."

What followed then had been an argument that neither of them had been able to win or willing to give ground on - Dwalin had accused him of running away from his trauma and Thorin had repeatedly told him that he was fine and it was _his job_ after all to know whether people were fine or not. Dwalin had argued that his judgement was obviously impaired on that part and in the end they had both grown so heated in their arguments that Thorin had left their house and walked over to the next park simply to calm down and not throw any words at Dwalin that he'd truly regret. Since then the only words that they had spoken were normal ones during meals or concerning the household. Thorin can't remember any other time when he had ever not been looking forward to going home and being with Dwalin - but now he is. He wishes the feeling of absolute terror when he thinks about it would disappear. Can a marriage truly end so quickly? Thorin has always been convinced that their relationship was built on stronger foundations.

He is ripped out of his thoughts as the door to the Baggins' home finally opens and Frodo steps out. Bilbo gives the boy a hug before Frodo skips down the stairs and begins walking down the street, in Thorin's direction.

Thorin takes care to keep some distance as he begins to follow Frodo down the street. But of course it doesn't take long for the boy to discover him. His eyes widen as he sees Thorin and his steps quicken until he is practically running away. Thorin follows him, trying to look like he's not chasing Frodo although it's hard since that’s pretty much what he’s doing.  

Frodo doesn't run far - after turning a few corners he enters a little chapel, the doors banging shut behind him. Thorin hesitates a few moments before he follows him, opening the door slowly so that it doesn't appear like he is barging in and cornering Frodo. He can see the boy sitting towards the front on one of the wooden benches and peeking in his direction, so he takes his time when walking towards him, trying to appear as open and friendly as he can.

He stops when he sees that Frodo is close to running away again, already beginning to slide off the wooden church bench. With a smile he lifts his hands, trying to ignore the hammering in his chest and the nagging feeling that he has been here before, has done all of this already.

"Hey," he calls out, softly at first. Frodo looks around towards him and Thorin can see the fear in his wide eyes.

"Who are you?" Frodo asks him. Both of them are aware that they both know and don’t know the answer.

"My name is Thorin Oakenshield." Thorin sits down on one of the benches, hoping it's far enough away so that Frodo will feel safe.

"I'm a child psychiatrist," he adds and then waits for Frodo to speak again. The boy only stares at him for a long while, however, letting the silence grow heavier and heavier between them.

"Why are you here?" Frodo finally wants to know. He looks as if he isn't quite sure he really wants to know the answer to that question. A hundred answers flicker through Thorin's mind, but in the end he decides to go with simple honesty.

"I need to understand what happened," he says quietly. "And I know you might be able to help me."

"You should be dead." Frodo's voice is barely more than a whisper. Thorin shivers.

"I know." The words feel like someone has to force every single sound from him by force.

"Then why are you here? Like a real person?" Frodo almost sounds angry now behind all the fear and doubt.

"I wish I could tell you." Thorin looks down at his own hands. "But somehow, I didn't die when I should have and now the world seems to have gone off track."

"How did you die?" Frodo asks, almost as if it were the most normal question in the world. Thorin almost withdraws but he knows he owes Frodo honesty if nothing else. He has to force his hands to remain still and not go up to where he knows the slowly healing scar on his chest is.

"I was shot. By somebody who I failed a long time ago."

Frodo nods and stares at him again.

"Nobody can do everything right all the time," he says, almost factually. Thorin almost smiles; he is almost sure that Frodo has picked up that particular piece of wisdom from his uncle. At least it sounds very much like something a parental figure would say.

"No, nobody can," he agrees with Frodo. "But sometimes the failure still hurts very much."

He doesn't even think of Azog as he says those words, although he will never forget that particular kind of pain either; no, his mind is with Dwalin and the anger and agony on his face during the last time they argued. He wonders if he will ever be able to make things right again. But how do you tell someone that you should be dead? Dwalin already looked at him strangely when he mentioned the two different planes the world seems to be running in.

"Yeah." Frodo's eyes keep flickering away from Thorin's face.

"Why are you hiding in here?" Thorin is determined to try and bring the conversation away from him a little bit, just so that he can have time to breathe and think about his next steps with Frodo.

"I thought it was safe," Frodo says quietly.

"Safe from me?"

There is a flicker in Frodo's eyes, but he doesn't answer. Thorin can feel that there is more to it than just simple fear of him. But, whatever it is, Frodo is not ready to tell him yet although Thorin can sense that the answer is so close to him.

"Do you come here often then?"

Frodo nods in reply and Thorin can see that he is clenching something in his hands.

"I'm sorry to be intruding in your safe space," he tells the boy carefully. "If you want me to leave right now, I will. But I promise I'm not here to hurt you."

Frodo thinks for a moment before he looks down at his hands again, obviously caressing what is inside his fist. Thorin has a feeling that he should know what it is, but as much as he racks his brain, he cannot remember. As so often before, he wishes he could simply see into the mind of another person, know all their thoughts in a split second. It would make many things especially in his job so much easier.

"Would you never come back if I told you to?" Frodo wants to know in the end, suddenly raising his head and looking Thorin straight in the eyes. Thorin takes a deep breath and refuses to look away.

"Yes." If there is anything he truly hates, it is denying someone their agency, even if it's only a child. Frodo seems to fight with himself when he looks at Thorin but Thorin doesn't move, just looks straight back at him with all the confidence he can muster. "But if you tell me to stay, I also promise that I will do all I can in this world to help you. If you want to try and help me too."

"Okay. Maybe." Frodo shrugs and looks away again, as if he isn't sure about this own answer. "I don't know yet."

The last is added so quietly that Thorin almost can't hear it.

"Well, you have enough time to decide," he says soothingly. He knows he can't rush things although time is the one thing he _doesn't_ really have at the moment. Not if he wants to have any hope to understand what is happening and patch up things with Dwalin.

"What do you say - I'll be waiting in front of this place at this time every day for a little bit and once you decide you are ready, you can come and see me."

"Alright," Frodo nods.

"It's an agreement then?" Thorin asks and extends his hand in Frodo's direction. It takes a while for the boy to come over and shake it. His fingers are cold as ice and he is still clutching something in his other hand. He lets go of Thorin as quickly as he can and steps back, on the verge of running.

"Thank you," Thorin tells him and nods formally. He gets up to leave the chapel, seeing from the corner of his eyes that Frodo is opening his hand and looking down at a Star Wars figurine in it. Strange. Thorin almost feels like he knew it a split second before he actually saw.

He walks out of the little chapel and stops not far away, beneath a large tree at the side of a small graveyard whose stones have long since been overgrown by moss and lichen. Staring at the graves he begins shivering and inhales sharply when a pain races through his chest. For a moment dirt is filling his mouth and he feels like he can't breathe and he is cold, so cold-

A bird begins to sing somewhere and suddenly the feeling stops. Thorin takes a few gasping breaths, only then becoming aware that he has been digging his fingernails so deeply into his skin that he is almost bleeding. He steps away from the graveyard, the shivers inside him still not fully subsiding. His steps remain slightly unsteady as they carry him away and down the street to the nearest Overground station. There is no way he can ever tell Dwalin about this. His partner would worry, would treat him like glass and he cannot allow that. If there is anything that Thorin hates more than anything else it's sympathy and, even worse, pity. To be looked at as a broken human being. He doesn't think he could be able to stand that look in Dwalin's eyes.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a lot of discussion about mortality.

Bilbo is pruning the little Bonsai tree he has in his living room when he hears the front door open. Immediately he puts his scissors aside and wipes off his hands on the small piece of cloth next to him whilst walking over to the door.

"Hey, Frodo. How was school today?"

Frodo looks up briefly and mumbles something as he takes off his shoes and puts them besides Bilbo's in almost perfect order as if he has never heard that primary school children are supposed to be rather untidy. Then he comes over and wraps his arms around Bilbo as if his uncle was the safest place in the world for him.

"Hey hey." Bilbo carefully ruffles Frodo's hair, feeling the familiar worry rising up in his chest again. "Did anything bad happen? Were the others being mean to you again?"

Frodo shakes his head but Bilbo can almost smell the lie. He sighs and hugs his nephew back as tightly as he can, wishing that there was more that he could do besides endless calls to parents and Frodo's teachers at school who all seem strangely disinterested in everything.

"Want to help me with the bonsais?" he asks Frodo. Frodo finally stops hugging him and glances past Bilbo into the living room, then nods.

"Okay, but first you have to get changed out of your school uniform alright? I'll make you some cocoa and then we can see if we can help your little tree grow as nicely as all the others."

Frodo nods again and speeds off upstairs into his room as Bilbo goes into the kitchen to prepare the cocoa just the way Frodo likes it - with plenty of cocoa powder and a few miniature marshmallows. A breath of cold wind seems to slide across his back and Bilbo turns around frowning. Strange. He thought he had closed all the windows earlier after airing out the house. Only moments later Frodo comes running down the stairs, seemingly on the verge of panic. Bilbo has barely enough time to put the cocoa to the side so it won't be spilled when Frodo rushes into his arms, trembling like a leaf.

"What happened?"

"I saw something scary." Frodo's voice is being muffled by Bilbo's clothes. It is the most he has ever told Bilbo about the panic attacks he sometimes seems to get. Bilbo has always assumed they were based on Frodo's fundamental fear of being left alone and everyone leaving him, but this is new.

"What did you see?" he wants to know, honestly worried about Frodo. Maybe, if it's only nightmares or phantoms of the mind they will be able to do something about it. Anything to stop Frodo shaking and make all the fear in his eyes go away. Frodo, however, simply shakes his head and buries his face more deeply in Bilbo's chest. Bilbo can feel that he's crying, but he can't do much more than pat his nephew's back and simply try and be there for him until the tears stop falling.

*

Frodo is still shaking slightly when they sit down so that he can drink his cocoa. There is no way he can ever tell Bilbo what he has seen, not without sounding like a freak. And surely his uncle would throw somebody like that out, no matter what he is saying to Frodo now. This time it has been a ghost he has never seen before - not the woman with the noose or the young man with the slashed throat. No, this time it was a young girl, surely not much older than he is now.

Or has been. He doesn't even know in which tenses to think about those that he sees - because clearly she will never grow older than she is now, the same age the day she has been when she died. She has scared him, with her pale skin and her retching and the sadness in her eyes, like one of those abysses in your dreams that you will never be able to jump over no matter how hard you try. All the ghosts seem to have fear and despair in their eyes, but rarely has Frodo seen someone so scared like her. He has to admit to himself that he has felt sympathy for her and pity, but his own fear is still stronger.

The warmth of Bilbo's embrace helps to dispel that fear a little and he is almost afraid when he finally closes his fingers around the warm mug that his uncle has prepared for him that all the ghosts will return as soon as he steps out of his uncle's hug.

"Uncle Bilbo?" He looks up briefly, right into Bilbo's eyes before dropping his gaze again. Bilbo is putting milk and sugar into his own tea with measured movements.

"Yes?" Somehow Bilbo manages the art of never raising his voice, even when he is upset or angry. Frodo wonders how he does it and if he will be able to learn that art one day.

"What do you do when you are really scared of something? How do you make it go away?"

"Really scared? You mean the kind of scared that rattles your bones and makes your breath feel like it's made of rocks?" Bilbo asks. Frodo only nods, hands still wrapped around his mug with the delicious warm cocoa inside.

"I don't quite know," Bilbo sighs, but quickly keeps on talking as he sees Frodo's crestfallen face. "I usually try and think of something that I like. Something that gives me strength."

"Something that gives you strength?" Now Frodo is curious; he doesn't quite know what his uncle means, but he is always willing to try out new things that might help against the ghosts.

"Yeah." Bilbo frowns slightly as he is trying to put his thoughts into word and explain them to Frodo so that he might understand. "Like...for example I think about my garden with all its beautiful flowers in it and the way the sun hits the leaves late in the evening. I think about a very good cup of tea. I think about how my Ma used to hold me and tell me it'll be alright..."

His voice stops when he realises what he has said and he looks rather ashamed, especially when he sees Frodo's face changing from the rapt attention from before to the expression that means he is withdrawing within himself again.

"I'm sorry Frodo, I didn't want to bring up any memories that hurt you, I-"

"Mum said that I should never be afraid because she'll always be there to protect me," Frodo says in a very, very small voice. "But she was lying, wasn't she? No one is there forever. And you won't be either, will you?"

"No, one day I won't be anymore," Bilbo replies very carefully. He feels anger welling up inside him for a moment, anger at a world that thought it okay to take a boy's parents away out of nowhere and teach him the reality of death far, far too soon. "But that is still a long time away, okay?"

"But what if you have an accident, like Ma and Da did? At school Sam told me that one of his cousins was hit by a car the other week, although he'd done nothing wrong..."

"These things happen, yes," Bilbo admits. "And sometimes it's just simple bad luck. But I think we've had far too much of that, didn't we?" He wishes he could tell Frodo that even if he dies, there are others who love him, who would take him in and care for him, but the truth is that he isn't sure about that. Of course, some people in his family are of the better sort and nobody there is truly malicious - but he is also fairly sure that none of them would have the patience or means to take care of an orphan now.

Sometimes he lies awake at night, fearing exactly the same thing that Frodo fears - that something will happen to him and there would be nobody anymore to protect his nephew from the world around him. If there is anything he truly fears than it is Frodo being left alone. And even though he has changed his will so that Frodo won't at least lack any financial security for a while, he knows well enough that money can't make up for affection and security.

Frodo nods in answer to his question and looks as if he wants to hug Bilbo again.

"Hey, Frodo," Bilbo leans forward, making sure that Frodo will hear his next words. "I promise, I won't leave you any time soon and I will do my best to careful so no accident happens, alright?"

"Alright," Frodo doesn't sound convinced, but the boundless fear in his voice is a bit less for now. "So what should I think about when I'm scared?"

Bilbo thinks about the question for a moment, going back to their original conversation.

"What makes you happy?" he asks him.

Frodo frowns as if this is a question that he has never really pondered before.

"Just think of anything," Bilbo tries to help him. "It can be a place, a person, a thing...something that makes you feel happy and safe."

"I don't know," Frodo mumbles and Bilbo can feel the ache in his heart, so strong that he thinks it might burst at any moment. Frodo keeps staring at the slowly cooling cocoa in his hands, obviously still thinking about Bilbo's question.

"I like it when we huddle under the big blanket and watch movies together," the answer comes eventually. "I like the hot cocoa the way you make it. I really liked it when we went to Kew Gardens that one time..."

Bilbo smiles, hoping the sadness inside him doesn't show on his face.

"What do you say that we're going to go on another trip there soon? I've heard that they renovated one of the greenhouses now. Would you like to see that?"

"Yeah!" For a moment Frodo truly sounds like a child his age should, full of enthusiasm and his eyes shining with anticipation.

"Great!" Bilbo smiles back. "Then let's do it next weekend, alright?"

"Okay." Frodo grins briefly before taking another deep gulp from his cocoa.

"Maybe, when you get scared then, you think about that. That it won't last forever and that there is something really great that's going to happen next weekend. Also, when it's evening and you are scared, come and tell and we can huddle under the blanket again and watch one or two things if I'm not super busy. Does that sound good to you?"

"Yeah."

Bilbo nods along, sipping his own tea now that it isn't too hot anymore.

"And, Frodo?" he adds gently. "If there is something that frightens you, you can always tell me about it, okay? I promise I won't ever laugh at you, even if it seems really stupid to you. I used to be afraid of blue butterflies after all."

That admission makes Frodo laugh and Bilbo has to explain to him that when he was little he used to think that blue butterflies were very poisonous and would melt off your skin when you came close. They both finish off their drinks and then Bilbo returns to his Bonsai, telling Frodo he can come and join him as soon as he wants, with his homework from school and to prune the little tree that's Frodo's.

Frodo watches as his uncle goes into the living room, humming slightly to himself as he picks up his Bonsai cutting tools again. He is still terrified from what he has seen earlier. Bilbo's ideas were all good and would have worked had it been anything but actual ghosts haunting him. Now, however...he wishes he could tell someone but he is still too scared to do so with Bilbo. Frodo takes a deep breath and faces down the decision he knows he would have to make eventually. Maybe Dr. Oakenshield is right. Maybe they can truly help each other. He wonders if the man who should be dead (for no matter what he does, that's how he's still thinking of him most of the time) is still waiting for him where he said he would. Tomorrow, he tells himself firmly, tomorrow he is going to find out. He just has to pick up the courage to do it.


	7. Chapter 7

Thorin shrugs on his coat with a sigh. It's spring and he feels like he shouldn't have any need of the heavy wool, but somehow he's been feeling perpetually cold ever since the shooting. He is going out for another morning to wait for Frodo in front of the little church and doesn't quite know what he should expect - a part of him is ready to give up hope that the boy will ever come to speak to him again, but the other is almost frantic with some leftover inkling that a miracle might as yet happen.

"Where are you going?"

Thorin closes his eyes for a moment and turns around, trying to ignore how every single part of him seems to knot itself into a fiery tangle of pain at the voice. Dwalin stands in the hallway with a coffee in hand, as of yet still wearing nothing but his pyjamas. The one Thorin bought him two years ago as a birthday gift, Thorin realises with another painful tug. It has paw prints all over it.

"Out. I've got to run some errands," he explains and wishes his voice wouldn't sound so cold. He tries to mitigate the situation, by adding in a softer tone: "Do you want me to get something from the store for you?"

"Nah, I'm fine." Dwalin shakes his head but the glance from his grey eyes is suspicious. "Did you forget that you have a therapy appointment this morning?"

Thorin shakes his head, not knowing what to answer. Of course he hasn't forgotten - he simply doesn't want to go. He is perfectly conscious of the irony in his decision, being a psychiatrist himself, but that doesn't help to weaken the storm inside him.

"That's the third time you're missing it." Dwalin's voice is quiet, the kind of quiet that betrays the fury raging behind his eyes. "You know these appointments are there to help you, right?"

"I know." It's an effort to keep his voice calm. "I don't think they do though."

"Well, I think they do."

"But you don't know what it looks like inside my head, do you?" Thorin hates how his voice is becoming louder. His own temper is just as mighty as Dwalin's when it gets wakened.

"I used to," Dwalin says tonelessly. "And once you trusted me enough to know that, too."

The ache inside Thorin tightens because he knows that Dwalin is right. However, he also knows that he is right, too. He doesn't need help, he can deal with it by himself. He _has_ to deal with it by himself.

"I still trust you." He hates how his voice almost makes it sound like a lie, even though it isn't. He would still trust Dwalin with his life - but there is a corner of his mind that he cannot reveal to him yet, out of simple fear what might follow. To see in Dwalin's eyes that he might think that Thorin's mind has completely broken under the pressure...he shudders.

"You don't look like it." Dwalin's gaze is hard and unwavering.

"Then you don't trust me anymore either." The words feel like shards of glass on Thorin's tongue and he can feel his fingers clenching into a fist.

"I didn't say that." At least now, Dwalin has the bashfulness to look aside for a moment. Thorin can see his knuckles standing out white where they are clenched around the mug and realises that Dwalin is just as afraid of and hurt by this conversation as he is.

"Dwalin, I'm sorry." Thorin knows just how empty these words must sound to his husband, but he has to try again. He has to make him see. "I know you don't believe me anymore and that I haven't been honest with you. I know you think I've changed, maybe too much."

Dwalin stands there unmoving and for a moment Thorin wishes nothing more than simply to feel his arms around him and forget everything that has happened. But he has hurt him, that much he knows, and no matter how much he wishes it were different it will take more than a simple embrace and kiss to set things right again.

"You have," Dwalin says, voice almost toneless now. He takes another sip from the mug in his hands.

"But you _have_ to trust me. Not for much longer, I promise. I'll fix what's wrong. Everything. I'm fine. We'll be fine."

"You can't even see it, can you?" Dwalin shakes his head. "If you were one of your patients you'd tell yourself that you need help, that there's no need to shoulder everything on your own. _Stay by your side for good things and bad,_ _remember? You don't have to fight this alone. But you have to trust me."_

"And I do. Dwalin, I trust you more than anyone else in the world. But this...this you cannot help me with."

Hurt flashes over Dwalin's face, hurt that quickly morphs into anger.

"Then go. But don't expect me to always be here when you return." Before Thorin can reply, Dwalin turns around and heads back into the kitchen, leaving Thorin with one arm half into his coat and a feeling inside him as if he was both burning up and slowly turning into ice inside.

He steps out of the house into the air that suddenly seems even colder than he expected. Shivering, Thorin tucks his coat closer around himself, his mind a whirl of emotions that he doesn't quite know how to make sense of. How can he tell Dwalin? And how can he not? He feels as if he is trying to hold together a sand castle on a stormy beach with bare hands when he thinks about his husband and his marriage. Thorin shudders, trying not to consider what might lie ahead. He had been so sure that he had found his soulmate in Dwalin and when he had promised to be by his side until the end of their lives, he had meant it more than anything he had ever said before. How could things have changed so much? And is it, after all, his own fault?

Thorin shakes his head, angry both at himself and the world at how it had come to this.

 _You know how it has_ , a nagging voice in his head whispers, _you couldn't help Azog back then. If you had, if you had put just some work in, done something different...none of this would have happened._

He shudders once more, feeling the pain of his wound flaring up again. Thorin would have never thought that a small mistake long past would have such an effect on his life, on Dwalin's and that of everyone around him. It's impossible to tell just how often he has searched his brain, wrecked with guilt, trying to figure out where exactly he had made the mistake back then that had led to all of this. However, no matter how often he goes through what he remembers of the sessions with Azog, he still doesn't know what he could or would have done differently.

His steps carry him to the underground and from there to the place where has been waiting for Frodo every morning so far. Thorin tries to avoid looking at the graveyard with its little stones, remembering all too well the feeling it caused the last time he came too close. Instead he waits on the other side, still in view of the entrance door, but not obviously loitering around, or at least he hopes so. When he sees a small shape walking toward the chapel he has to look twice to make sure he sees right.

Frodo looks like he isn't sure what he's doing at this place himself - but slowly he walks closer towards Thorin, clearly trying to overcome his fear with each step that he takes. Finally he stands in front of him, his large eyes filled with equal parts anxiety and hope.   

"Hey." Thorin smiles at him. "I'm glad you came, Frodo."

Frodo simply looks at him without saying anything, still appearing rather unsure of the fact that he should really stay here.

"Why did you come if I can ask?" Thorin wants to know.

"I'm so tired of being scared all the time," Frodo says very quietly. "And I don't want my uncle to be sad any longer because he can't make me happy. I just want it all to work out..."

"I can imagine," Thorin attempts another smile. "I am very tired, too. Of not knowing what's happening to me, of the feeling that things are wrong all the time..."

"You feel that too?" Frodo asks him with large eyes.

"Yes, like I've told you before. There are things that are...wrong and I don't know what it is. I think you're the only one who might be able to help me."

"Me help...you?" Apparently this is something that Frodo hasn't considered before - that he might be someone who can help other people as well.

"Yeah. I'm fairly sure that there's a few things I can learn from you as well, not only you from me. A lot of help goes both ways, you know?" Thorin watches as the thought sinks into Frodo's brain.

"Like when I help my uncle cut his bonsais and he shows me how it's done in return?" Frodo asks him. Thorin has to laugh quietly.

"Yes, exactly like that," he tells him. Then his face becomes serious again. "I feel like we should sit down somewhere before we continue talking. Do you want to go inside?"

Frodo shakes his head and points at one of the benches that are at the side of the church, overlooking the little park that surrounds it.

"There," he says and Thorin understands. The church is, after all, still a safe space for him, a place where he can feel secure - and Thorin has not yet gained the trust needed to be allowed in there. He nods and follows the boy to one of the benches. Frodo seats himself at the opposite side from Thorin, as far away as he can without falling off the bench. Thorin takes a deep breath.

"Now, Frodo, you have to promise me something before we start, okay?" Frodo simply looks at him, waiting.

"You have to promise to always be honest," Thorin continues and feels another sting in his heart when he notices just how similar the words are to what Dwalin told him this morning. How does he have the right to ask Frodo for something like this when he can't even be honest to his own husband? Still, he forges on.

"I promise, I will be just as honest. And I won't ridicule you, no matter what you tell me and whether the rest of the world would think that you are lying. I'm fairly sure by now that there is a lot more to this universe than we can see."

Frodo keeps staring at him, the fight inside him apparent. Not for the first time, Thorin wonders just what kind of secret the boy is carrying around with him. That it has to do with death is clear to him and he knows that it is something that is frightening Frodo to no end - so much, in fact, that he would bet that he has never told anybody about it until now. Thorin knows that it is a lot to ask for to reveal something that Frodo has carried around with him for so long to an almost total stranger.  

"Okay," Frodo finally says, his so quiet that Thorin can barely hear it.

"Good." Thorin puts another encouraging smile on his face. "And now, I have to ask you - what is it that frightens you so much? Why are you so scared?"

Frodo somehow seems to withdraw even more within himself, slinging his arms around his body and looking down at the ground. He bites his lip and for a moment Thorin thinks he won't reply, that he will get up and it will all have been for nothing. Just when he is about to try and encourage him again, Frodo answers, his voice trembling and eyes wide with fear.

"I see dead people."


	8. Chapter 8

_I see dead people_.

The sentence reverberates in Thorin's head as if somebody has used a giant gong between his ears. Things fall into place and make sense all of a sudden, like a giant puzzle that has suddenly somehow resolved itself.

"They don't know they're dead," Frodo continues, as if the one sentence has opened a floodgate of words. "They walk around like living people and watch me, all the time. They're _everywhere_."

"What do they look like?" Thorin feels as if he's in a trance. It's hard to breathe; as if two strands of his life have intersected now where he had expected there to be only one. Something has grown complete at the same time as surety waltzes over him with iron strength.

He should truly be dead.

It wasn't all a dream, wasn't his own mind making things up - he should have died that night and Frodo knows it too, knows it because somewhere, in a different time, he has seen his ghost. It sounds utterly mad when he voices those thoughts in his mind and yet he knows that they are true. How is he ever going to tell somebody else though? How is he ever going to let people know without them thinking he has gone completely insane? That his nightmares and moments of sudden panic might not all be connected to Frodo never crosses his mind.

"They look just like dead people look," Frodo murmurs. "Like the living, but you can see how they died. Some with a noose, some with a knife, some burnt...but I don't think they know. They never even seem to notice that something is wrong. They only see what they want to see."

Thorin's hand unconsciously wanders to his chest again. If he closes his eyes and concentrates, he can almost feel the bullet there and hear the echo of Dwalin's voice in his ears. He also seems to remember saying goodbye to him in their dimly lit living room, remembers alcohol and cigarettes on the table and their cat Nat meowing mistrustfully at her transport box.

"Yes," he says quietly. "It feels like you're still alive. And you just...ignore everything that seems wrong around you."

Frodo's eyes widen at Thorin's words. 

"Do you still remember what it's like? Being dead I mean?"

Thorin shakes his head, wondering what anybody would think who could overhear their conversation.

"I cannot remember what never happened." He can see Frodo closing in on himself again and hurriedly continues. "But I know that somewhere, maybe in a different world, I died that night, just like you said I did. And I know we met afterwards and that there was something very important that I had to do for you. Sometimes, I seem to remember little things, but not more."

"I think so too. Sometimes I think something entirely different should be happening right now. I thought we should be in a hospital when we're talking about this..." Frodo's voice trails off. Thorin nods; if he concentrates he can even smell a whiff of disinfectant. Strange, to have your perception in two places at once.

"Did you..." Thorin swallows. The next words don't come easy to him. "Did you feel anything when it happened? When I...died?"

Frodo looks up at him and cocks his head slightly. "I don't think I did," he says carefully. "When was it?"

"Last year. I-" Thorin takes a deep breath and wishes his hand would stop trembling. He has talked about this before, he has thought back to it when his mind forced him to, it should have been easy for him now. He can feel anger at his own mind welling up inside him. "Last year, my husband and I had just returned from Oxford. We had dinner and a nice evening at home when we heard a sound from upstairs. We went to have a look and..."

His voice breaks off and he doesn't know how to continue. Words seem so inadequate to describe what he has seen and felt that evening, the utter horror, paired with fear and shame.

"It was somebody who I'd met as a boy years before. And who I couldn't help. He had come back. And he was scared, I could see it in his eyes. Scared and angry. He told us that I'd ruined his life, that I hadn't listened that it was all my fault...and then he shot me. And himself right afterwards."

Thorin barely manages to force out the words. Distantly he feels guilty that he would tell Frodo something so awful, so heavy, but then Frodo has seen what death can do to people. He sees it every day. He feels almost like laughing shrilly in desperation. The entire situations is just far too absurd. Lord, but does he hope that it is worth it.

Frodo shakes his head.

"I don't think I've felt anything." He hesitates. "Do you know what he looked like? Maybe I saw him."

There is a mute pain in Thorin's hands and when he looks down at them he realises they are clenching his coat so tightly that his knuckles are standing out white. He tries to take more deep breaths to calm himself down, but it barely works.

"He had white hair. And shot himself in the head. I think you would...remember." He swallows, his throat so dry that he wonders if he'll be able to keep on talking. The images seem like they are burnt in the back of his eyelids and more than once he thought he has seen Azog standing somewhere close from the corner of his eyes, even though he can't be. He is truly dead, after all.

"I don't think I've seen him," Frodo tells him. "I guess he's truly gone."

He frowns before he continues. "Does that mean not everybody becomes a ghost?"

"It wouldn't seem so," Thorin nods, thankful for the opportunity to try and pull his brain away from the traumatic experience and try and wrap it around a slightly more logical problem.

"Imagine, if everybody became a ghost, you would be seeing even more of them, no?" He asks Frodo. "And although you see many, I don't think you see everyone who died. There are just too many."

Frodo nods, looking thoughtful. "I guess so. But why do some stay and others don't?" 

"I don't know. Maybe it's those who cannot let go of their lives. Or those who still have things left unfinished. I think...I am quite sure that when I came back it was to help you. And...to say goodbye to my husband. Because I had failed to help someone once before and thus received a second chance."

"So you were sent back? Was it a god who did that?"

"No, I don't think so. I am not sure it was anybody. Maybe, somewhere in the pattern of this world, a string was severed where it shouldn't have been and it was my purpose to try and knit the ends back together."

"I don't understand." Frodo shakes his head. Thorin sighs regretfully.

"I don't either. I wish I would." He spreads out his hands, looking it his knuckles and still slightly shaky fingers. "I guess there are things that we just can't explain in this world. And those ghosts are probably one of them."

 "That doesn't seem fair though."  Frodo frowns again, his feet now stubbornly kicking the bench he is sitting on. "Why do I have to see them and others don't? Did I do something wrong? Is that why I was cursed?"

"I don't think you were cursed Frodo. Sometimes things just...happen. Bad things happen to good people, even though they don't deserve it." A small smile flickers over his face as he remembers something. "My husband once lost his job right on New Year's Eve. And the next day he managed to break my favourite mug by accident. He said very much the same thing as you just did, that he was cursed and everything he tried was just going wrong. I told him that it had nothing to do with him and that sometimes, stuff like that seems to pile on and on. And he is certainly not a bad person. I married him, after all."

"But what am I supposed to do then? I don't want to be scared for the rest of my life. I don't want to see them anymore. Can you just...make them go away?"

"I wish I could Frodo, I wish I could." Thorin feels the sadness heavy in his heart. But no matter how he racks his brain, he is fairly sure that whatever happened in a different time, it was never that Frodo would stop seeing the dead.  "I don't think I can make them go away - but what I can do is help you cope with them. You know I think...the man I told you about? The man who murdered me? His name was Azog. When he was small, he was the same as you. He said he saw things that frightened him, although he often even refused to leave his room. Azog once told me that what he saw was dead people - but I'm afraid I didn't believe it. I wish now that I had."

"So it was your fault that he went mad and killed you?" Frodo's question cuts like a knife, the same thing that Thorin has asked himself over and over as well.

"Yes," Thorin replies simply. "I believe that it was my fault. And I also believe that it is my responsibility to set right what has been done wrong and help you with everything I can. So that the same thing might never happen again to anybody and especially not to you."

"Then you think that I can be saved? That I won't end up...like Azog? Because I really don't want to kill anybody..."

"I know that you won't," Thorin smiles. "And I promise we'll try and find a solution together. But I simply cannot promise you that that solution will mean that you can't see them anymore. I'm no miracle worker, even though I sometimes wish I were one."

"What else do you think I can do then? I really don't want to see them anymore. I don't want to be scared all the time." Frodo sounds almost mulish now, stubbornly hoping that his problems will go away if he wished for it just strongly enough.

"Have you ever tried touching one? Or talking to them?"

Frodo shudders, as if the thought alone already disgust him. "Never. They are usually angry. I am sure they would hurt me if I came close."

"But how will you know if you don't try?" Thorin raises his hand when Frodo opens his mouth to tell him the same as before. "Alright, I know, they are evil. But then, we met, and I don't seem to recall that I was particularly evil to you even though I cannot remember much of it. Maybe there are some ghosts that simply aren't bad if you just try and talk to them."

"I don't think so," Frodo shakes his head.

"You will have to try something or you will never find the courage to change things." Thorin makes his voice as gentle as possible. "Is there a ghost that you have seen recently that you think you could talk to? Maybe one that isn't quite as scary as the rest of them?"

Frodo thinks for a moment before he replies.

"I don't know. I..." He stutters and stops, then picks up the thread of his thoughts again. "There was a little girl at home yesterday. I haven't seen her before. She was scary but also looked...really sad somehow. I almost wanted to help her."

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea. Try and talk to her. Just ask her what she wants - maybe she will tell you. And if you want to I can help you with whatever she is asking you to do."

"Okay, I will try."

Thorin smiles widely, trying to resist the urge to ruffle Frodo's hair.

"I'm sure you can do it."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter was very hard to write for me so I guess it probably won't be an easy read either :). Loooots of discussions of mental illness and how it can poison your life without you even noticing it.

After the conversation with Frodo Thorin walks along the streets aimlessly for a while, before he sits down in a coffee shop and tries to order his thoughts, hand wrapped around a hot chocolate. This remnant from his childhood has always helped to calm him down. A part of him isn't exactly surprised by what Frodo has told him, as if he has known all along. He supposes that that's true, in a way - apparently some unconscious part of him at least remembers a lot more than he thought it would. Or can he really call it 'remembering'? He doesn't know and the confusion doesn't truly help to clean up the storm inside his head.

What further complicates the situation is that, as soon as he tries to concentrate on Frodo and the troubles at hand, his mind immediately goes back to Dwalin. He loves him - that much he doesn't doubt, has never doubted and he also knows that Dwalin loves him back with equal ferocity although it has taken him a long time to truly believe and internalize it. No, their problem is of an entirely different sort and no matter how much Thorin thinks about it he doesn't know how to solve it.

If he could simply tell him every last snippet of what’s going on in his head and know that Dwalin would believe his story. If he could simply turn back time, make everything that happened disappear. Of course the rational part of himself knows that it is rather unlikely that anybody could come out of what they have been through completely unscathed mentally - but Thorin tells himself that no, he will certainly be fine, he can deal with this - isn't that his profession after all? He shudders, despite the hot chocolate in his hands and tells himself that of course, everything will be fine. It always is.

He ignores the nagging voice in the back of his head telling him that it won't be and takes another long sip from his hot chocolate. A quick look at the barista makes him smile a little - he seems to be exactly Dwalin's type. If his husband were here he'd probably be flirting with the young man, and probably doing so rather outrageously with Thorin in the background trying not to break out into haltless laughter. For a second he debates whether he should take a picture, but then decides against it. He can't imagine Dwalin appreciating it right now, not the way they are at the moment.

With a loud sigh, he gets up and slowly makes his way back home. Dwalin should still be at work around this time of day - maybe he can go and dig out some of the old records from the sessions with Azog to help with Frodo's problem. Something that he might have overheard, something that makes more sense now that he knows the context...anything that might be helpful really. Thorin only hopes that his advice to Frodo to try and talk to one of the ghosts won't backfire and that the boy won't be hurt. He isn’t sure that he’d be able to bear it if anything were to happen to Frodo.

When he opens the door to his home Thorin stops straight in his steps and frowns. There are noises from the kitchen and the radio is switched on, quite loud in fact. Which also explains why whoever is in the kitchen hasn’t heard him coming in. For a moment a stab of panic races through Thorin’s chest – what if it’s another intruder? What if Dwalin has been killed? What if-

Taking a deep breath he walks the few steps towards the kitchen, heartbeat resounding in his soul. His mouth is dry when he peeks around the corner and his knees almost buckle in relief when he sees Dwalin at the hob, back towards him and evidently cooking something on the hearth. He still doesn’t know why Dwalin is at home and not at work, but at least it’s him and not another intruder.

“Thorin?” Dwalin has finally noticed him.

“Hey.” Thorin forces a smile on his face, still not quite knowing how to react after their earlier argument. “I didn’t know you were home today.”

“You didn’t?” Hurt flickers over Dwalin’s face and his hand tightened around the spatula he is holding. A spatula. He’s making pancakes, Thorin realises, his favourite old house recipe from his mother, blueberry and whiskey. “Thorin it’s…it would have been mum’s 80th today. I’ve been making blueberry pancakes on that day for _years_.”

The words cut through Thorin’s skin like tiny sharp knives, each and every one of them. How could he have forgotten? Dwalin always took a half day off on his mother’s birthday, whenever it’s possible. Thorin has never known that much about her since he had never had the chance to meet her. But from the pictures he has seen and the things that Dwalin has told him he knows the he has always loved and revered her above everything - the pancake recipe had been hers and so it only seems proper to Dwalin to make her favourite meal again every year on her birthday.

“Dwalin…oh Dwalin, I’m so sorry.” It’s all that Thorin can say, the shame biting deep into his neck. Somewhere inside his head, a voice is screaming.

“Did you at least go to therapy?” Dwalin wants to know.

“I-“ Thorin averting his gaze and not even being able to finish the sentence are answer enough for Dwalin.

“You didn’t, did you.” There is only disappointment in his voice. Somehow, it hurts even more than any anger would.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin repeats helplessly. “I had to-“

“Thorin, what you have to do is _take care of yourself_. I cannot always do that for you. Nobody can. And don’t tell me that you’re fine. I know you’re not, I saw the look on your face when you saw it was me in the kitchen. You thought it was another intruder in here, didn’t you. Thorin, after all that we’ve been through, that’s a normal reaction, but you have to admit that you can’t fight it by yourself.”

“I made a mistake,” Thorin says quietly. “I made a terrible, terrible mistake in the past, Dwalin, and now it’s my time to pay for it. Someone is _dead_ because of me. It should have been him who should have gotten help, not me. _It was my fault_.”

It is, evidently the wrong thing to say. Dwalin’s eyes are blazing as he switches off the hub and takes the pan off it, just to turn back around to Thorin again. His chest is heaving with anger.

“He broke into our house and SHOT you, Thorin! _I watched you bleed out on the floor in front of me with bits of his brain stuck to my face!_ If you truly think that _you_ deserved this, that I deserved to see this, then…” Dwalin seems to almost deflate at the last sentence, although the rage is fully there now, lining this every word and making their edges sharp and ragged.

“I never said that _you_ deserved any of this!” Thorin shouts back. “Ultimately, it’s my fault too that you had to see this, had to go through all this! Don’t you think I know that?! Don’t you think I hate myself for it every single waking hour of the day?!”

“I know you do! _And that’s exactly the problem_!” Dwalin looks almost helpless now, his arms gesturing as he shouts his rage, not only at Thorin but at an entire world that has so cruelly changed their lives in a single instant. “Thorin, you don’t need to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders alone. You’re not the only one who could have helped Azog. You did all that you could at the time. Please, for the sake of everything, for the sake of _me_ , get help. _Please_.”

Thorin has never seen his husband as desperate as during those last words. It cuts through his sinews and bones, leaves little bleeding wounds all over his chest and he wonders if the pain will ever disappear. Dwalin doesn’t wait for a reply from Thorin, but continues, now much more quietly. There is a wet glistening in his eyes.

“I’m trying so hard to trust you, Thorin. But you have to trust me to and when you keep going off alone, keep falling into those dark pits, I can’t always be there. I’ve tried to pull you out so many times, just like you have pulled _me_ out time and time again. But at some point, my love won’t be enough to pull you out anymore. I love you, but I don't have the strength to love for two."

Dwalin's words set Thorin aback. He has never truly thought about it this way - for him, being hard on himself, at least twice as hard than on everybody else and often resenting himself for even the slightest of mistakes has always been natural and a trait that most of his family shares. He has never considered that not caring for himself would hurt the people around him.

"I'm sorry," he says again, wishing that using these words would somehow make everything bad between them go away. "I didn't- I never meant to hurt you."

"But you did," Dwalin tells him quietly. "By resenting yourself you are telling me that I'm a stupid person for loving you."

“I never-“ Thorin doesn’t even know how to finish the sentence. He fumbles for words, feeling the pain inside his chest swell, until he thinks that if he looks down he’d find nothing but a black and pulsing mass, eating up everything around it. Dwalin’s words seem to open a door towards a new kind of self-resentment and hurt and for a moment the thought is almost crystal clear in his head. _I can never make this right again_. “Dwalin, please.”

He knows he’s all but begging, but he cannot help it. The worst is that he actually knows that neither of them is the villain in this play of their lives; they are simply two people, trying to cope with something that they had never expected to happen. And that every one of the two of them has every reason to act as they do. Thorin realises that despite all their conversations, they have never actually tried to cope together.

He wonders what kind of judgement a writer would pass if their lives were nothing but a movie. Who would the audience’s heart break for? And who would they boo and wish to disappear?

Thorin looks up and sees Dwalin, sees the pain in his eyes and, yes, the anger as well. An even temper has never been the strongest suit of either of them which has always made their arguments difficult.

“Just give me more time, Dwalin. Just a little. I am so close. There is something that I need to work out and once that’s done I’m all yours. I’ll be honest. I promise.”

“I’m not sure how much more time I can give, Thorin.” Dwalin’s eyes seem to flicker. He has never been one to shy away from a confrontation; but now it feels like he wants to recoil, wants to turn away and hide somewhere where it’s safe.

“I feel…as if I am not welcome anymore in the space that’s your head. Maybe that means I’m not welcome here anymore either.”

Thorin shakes his head. It has taken a while, but behind all the shame and guilt he can feel his own anger slowly starting to boil.

“Now you’re the one being unfair and you know it. All I did was ask for a little more time; I never said that I wanted you to move out.”

“But maybe it’s not you who gets to decide that,” Dwalin shoots back angrily and, without waiting for a reply from Thorin, takes his plate with his pancakes and leaves the kitchen through the other door. He doesn’t even look back, abandoning the last batch of half-done pancakes on the counter and Thorin to stare at the wall, fingers closing into a fist and opening over and over again.


	10. Chapter 10

“Are you sure this is the right street?” Thorin asks Frodo as they walk down it side by side.

“Well, it has all the things that I can remember her describing…” Frodo sounds as unsure as Thorin feels. Thorin hadn’t really expected that Frodo talking to the dead girl would indeed produce any results from her, but to his surprise it did. Apparently she has told Frodo to come to her home and help her with something, although Thorin knows nothing more than that there is a box somewhere that Frodo is supposed to find. He has no idea how they are supposed to get into the house which is presumably the private home of someone.

Together they have puzzled out from the girl’s vague hints where the house is most likely to be, but they still have to find it. As they walk further down the street together something catches Thorin’s eye – close to the end there seems to be quite the busy spot, with lots of cars parked on the street and a number of people milling about outside.

“I have a feeling this might be it,” Thorin suggests and Frodo nods next to him. They quicken their pace a little. As soon as they come closer Thorin sees that he has definitely been right – it looks like a wake is happening here, especially judging from the dark clothes and drawn faces of everyone. They walk up to the house and Thorin wonders how they are going to get inside – he is quite sure that despite this being a wake, the little girl’s parents probably won’t let just anybody inside.

As they knock on the door, Thorin is running a number of excuses through his head, even though none of them doesn’t seem to sound quite right. To his surprise, however, it’s Frodo who steps forward when the door opens and a middle-aged woman with reddened eyes looks out at them.

Frodo introduces himself as one of the dead girl’s friends and it seems like her mother does actually believe him, although her gaze grows suspicious when she looks up at Thorin.

“I’m a family friend of Frodo’s,” Thorin introduces himself, after saying his name. “I’m a child psychiatrist and Frodo mentioned that it might be a good idea if I accompanied him here. I hope you don’t mind? We won’t be long, I promise.”

“A child psychiatrist? But why would you-“ She stops herself in the middle of her sentence and her eyes go to somewhere behind Thorin. He turns and sees another little girl sitting on a swing set in the garden. She has to be the dead one’s sister. His heart breaks when he sees just how lost she’s looking, at the same time as his professional instincts kick in.

“Would it be alright if I talked to your daughter for a moment?” he asks. “Or would you like me to come inside with you, Frodo?”

Frodo looks at him, honestly seeming to ponder the question for a moment.

“Can you come inside? Just for a bit,” he asks hesitantly. Thorin smiles at him.

“Of course.” A shower of warmth runs through Thorin when he sees the hesitant trust blooming in Frodo’s eyes. It’s one of those moments he has always loved most in his work – that moment when the children truly begin to work with him, when that spark of trust finally springs over and sets their eyes alight. Thorin turns towards the mother again whose lips are quivering slightly when she is looking at Frodo. It isn’t too hard to imagine that her dead daughter was probably of the same age. “If you don’t mind?” he asks gently.

“No, of course not. Please, come in.”

The atmosphere in the house is so heavy that it seems like you could cut it with a knife. It is grief in perhaps its purest form – the one that has an undercurrent of anger and disbelief and sits on your chest, slowly crushing everything underneath to death.

Another woman comes over to greet them and to Thorin it’s clear that this has to be the dead girl’s other parent. Seeing them together makes him think of Dwalin and he has to bite his tongue, the pain of it helping him to push back those thoughts. He needs to concentrate on Frodo now, afterwards he can wallow in self-pity and misery all he wants. Frodo’s eyes keep going to the stairs that lead up and Thorin already thinks about how they can best make a quick disappearance upstairs when Frodo takes the matter in hand himself.

“I’m sorry, could I go upstairs quickly?” he asks. The girl’s mothers look at him, frowning. “I promised her that I’d leave something in her room once she’s gone. It’s really important to me. Please?”

The girl’s parents look at each other, slightly unsure but then one of them shrugs and nods. “If it helps you feel better,” she whispers quietly and the two retreat again. Frodo looks quickly at Thorin who gives him an encouraging nod before he goes up the stairs, unfailingly walking towards the door that must have belonged to the dead girl. Thorin couldn’t say how but just as Frodo does he knows as well that this is the right door – once again it feels like he’s been here before. It is a recognition on a more instinctive level than memory and yet the feeling is so strong that it’s almost overwhelming.

They enter the room and look at each other, then move almost synchronously towards the bed. Frodo kneels down, reaching out with his hands, even as goosebumps spread over his skin. For a moment Thorin feels it too – a breath of cold air, a flesh at the corner of his eyes and the feeling as if something very different and yet very similar is close to him. When he has caught himself again he looks down and sees Frodo with a box in his hands, his fingers trembling slightly.

“Is this what you came for?” he asks him softly and Frodo nods.

“She helped me find it,” he tells Thorin, his voice still quivering slightly.

“Yeah I think…I think I saw something.” Strange, to admit to himself that what he has seen is real. Ghosts. What a scientific sensation it would be if he could just prove it somehow that it hasn’t been a spectre of his mind. He wishes he could look into this phenomenon further, beyond the things that he experiences with Frodo here, could do experiments, find out what the spectres are made of, how they function- Thorin has to almost forcibly stop himself from going any further. He knows that without tangible proof, nobody would believe him. Even worse, they would probably take Frodo and turn his life into an endless series of investigations and scientific experiments, something that Thorin would rather spare the boy even though he knows that most scientists would only have his best interest or at least their natural curiosity for the world in mind. “Do you know what to do with the box?”

“She told me to give it to her mothers,” Frodo replies, looking down at the little chest in his hands. Thorin has a faint inkling that he knows what’s in there, but the feeling is too nebulous so that he can’t say that he is truly certain. There is only thing that he is suddenly clear about.

“I think they should open it somewhere with not that many people around them,” he tells Frodo. “I have a…feeling that not everybody might want to see what’s in there.”

“Yeah,” Frodo nods. It seems like Thorin isn’t the only one with certain inklings.

They walk back downstairs and without much further ado, Frodo hands the box over to the girl’s parents, telling them quietly that it’s a special message from their daughter that he found which they should watch somewhere private.

After handing over the box Thorin and Frodo step back outside again. Frodo looks at his empty hands and then at Thorin. “It was the grandmother, wasn’t it? I can’t remember how I know but…it was her. She is why the little girl is dead.”

His words spark a memory inside Thorin’s head and he nods.

“Yes. Yes, I think you are right.” His eyes, however, are wandering over to the dead girl’s sister who is sitting on a set of swings by herself. Thorin walks towards her, stopping in what his senses tell him is a safe distance. She looks up at him and he shudders at the emptiness and confusion he can see in her eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly. The girl doesn’t respond, but keeps staring at him with eyes that are far too old for her age. “I’m Thorin. What’s your name?”

“Rose,” she replies, her voice so quiet that it’s barely audible.

“Nice to meet you, Rose.” He doesn’t offer her his hand, feeling instinctively that they are not far enough on yet to bridge that distance.

“Hi,” Frodo says next to him, unexpectedly. “I’m Frodo.”

Rose nods, her gaze darting back and forth between Frodo and Thorin.

“Can I use the other swing?” Frodo asks her. “I haven’t used one in a while.”

Rose only shrugs in reply but she doesn’t protest. Thorin wonders when the last time was that her sister sat here on these slides with her. Frodo climbs up and begins to swing back and forth a little, but never far enough so that he would be out of talking distance.

“Do you miss your sister?” Thorin asks her gently.

Rose stares at the ground.

“I don’t know. I miss playing with her. And telling her about all the things that happen. But she wasn’t really there anymore in the last weeks…”

“Because she was so ill?”

“Yeah,” Rose nods and keeps staring at the floor. “She didn’t even talk that much.”

Something seems to break inside her at the words and although there are no tears, Thorin can see the sadness and despair brimming in her eyes.

“Every time I think of her, I think of her ill in bed. It makes me sad. I want to remember her playing with me, not dying.” One of her hands balls into a fist around the strings of her swing. “I am so angry.”

“Angry with everyone and everything around you?” Frodo asks her. Rose looks over at him, frowning. “I know what it feels like. Like you want to tear down everything bit by bit and shout and punch everyone who still has their whole family together.”

“How do you know?” Rose asks him, her fingers opening and closing. Thorin can guess that Frodo’s hit the nail on the head.

“I lost someone too,” Frodo says, but doesn’t elaborate more. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

The ghost of a tiniest smile flickers over Rose’s lips and Thorin feels something tucking inside his chest. He can see the trust that is starting to bloom between those two and hopes that maybe they will be able to help each other. Somehow the thought brings back what he has thought about this morning – how he and Dwalin have both tried to deal with what happened, but never _together_. Thorin thinks again of the two mothers clinging to each other as they mourn their dead child, of Frodo and Rose who only talk because there is a mutual understanding between them. And he thinks of Dwalin, of the anger in his eyes and the sadness and he can feel something inside him break.

 _I don't have the strength to love for two_.

“Frodo, we told your uncle where we were going, yes?” Frodo nods. “Is it alright if I call him and ask him to pick you up? I need to get home. There is something very, very important that I need to do.”

“Yeah,” Frodo doesn’t seem to mind that he has to stay there by himself for a little now. Thorin calls Bilbo, says goodbye to Frodo with the promise to see him again soon, and then turns around and starts running as fast as he can, not even stopping when his chest hurts so much that he thinks it will burst.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE CHAPTER EVERYONE HAS BEEN WAITING FOR! \o/

Thorin knows that Dwalin is very definitely going to be at work throughout the day today. They almost haven’t spoken at all since yesterday when he had found him in the kitchen making pancakes; Thorin is half afraid that Dwalin will make true on his promise and have moved out by the time he returns today. He racks his brain over how to approach things best with his husband – the fact that he has realised that he should share what’s going on in his mind hasn’t diminished the fear inside him that Dwalin will worry himself to pieces about him and not believe his words.

As soon as he comes home he sits down and begins to think about what he could do. He should have been working on the other cases that he has today, however, after a few phone calls he has managed to put all remaining responsibilities aside for at least the rest of this week, even if it’s only constituted of two more working days. He does feel slightly guilty about it, simply because he knows these children need just as much help as he does, if not more – but then he also knows that there are colleagues of his who will be able to handle and help them as well as he could. And saving his marriage is more important at the moment. He cannot be fully at work with his mind when things with Dwalin are so on edge. And once upon a time he had told him that whatever he did, Dwalin would never be second to his work again. Ever.

Thorin sets out to get out his cookbooks and for the next hour he leafs through them one by one to find something he could cook tonight. Dwalin has once jokingly told him that the moment he knew he wanted to marry Thorin was when they had first cooked a large three course meal together for New Year’s Eve. He spends the entire afternoon recreating what they made back then, losing himself in the ingredients and the simple process of making something with his own hands. It feels unexpectedly good, something that is grounding him and helping him to both relax and focus.

He almost doesn’t hear it when Dwalin comes home – sadly his schedule hasn’t quite worked out and he is still finishing up the sauce that is supposed to go over the meatloaf and trying not to step on Nat who has noticed that he’s making food and thus constantly walking around his feet.

“Thorin?”

At the word Thorin turns around and sees Dwalin standing in the entrance to the kitchen, an almost perfect mirror image to them yesterday when he was the one coming home to Dwalin cooking. Suddenly all the nervousness that had vanished before comes rushing back into him.

“Hi,” he says. “I. Uhm. I made dinner. Or, am making. It’s not quite done. I was a bit slower an-“ Thorin bites his tongue as he realises that he’s babbling like a schoolkid in front of their first crush.

“I can see that.” Thorin wonders if that’s the ghost of a smile he can see flickering over Dwalin’s face. He takes a deep breath, looking at the sauce he’s stirring.

“Could you help me with the sauce maybe?” he asks his husband. “So that I can set the table. If you want to have dinner with me today, that is. And…talk.” He swallows, his throat suddenly dry.

Dwalin hesitates for a moment, his eyes not leaving Thorin’s face and suddenly Thorin fears that there is indeed no going back, that he has let matters progress too far for anything to be saved. But then Dwalin nods.

“Just let me hang up my coat and get changed real quick,” he tells Thorin. When he comes back down the stairs from their bedroom he’s wearing his usual too large shirt and old sweatpants. Thorin wordlessly hands him the whisk – Dwalin knows the sauce he’s making, they’ve made it together more than once – and begins to set their living room table, trying not to fall over Nat who seems to be intent on running back and forth between him and Dwalin. Dwalin helps him on the last stretches until everything is set up and prepared, clearly noting the choice of food. They both settle down and Thorin starts handing out the carrot and coriander soup he’s made. Before they can begin to eat, however, Dwalin’s spoon sinks a little lower on the plate and he looks Thorin straight in the eyes.

“So what did you want to talk about?”

Thorin looks down at the spoon in his hand that suddenly feels as heavy as if it were made of solid lead. But this time he has to make the beginning – he owes it to Dwalin and their relationship, he feels, even though neither of them has been without fault in what has happened.

“Us.” He says it firmly, with all the conviction behind it that he can muster. “And me. The way we handled things and everything that’s…been going on in my head.”

“Then go ahead.” At the same moment Dwalin dunks his spoon into the soup and begins to eat. “But don’t let the soup get cold, it’s too good for that.”

Thorin can’t help but smile a little.

“You like it then?”

“What kind of question is that? I married you so that I could eat this soup for the rest of my life,” Dwalin throws back and suddenly there it is again, that levity between them and mutual understanding even if it’s only a shadow of what they usually share.

“Charmer,” Thorin murmurs into his own spoonful. “Well. I guess I better begin then. First of all though, you have to promise me something, Dwalin. Will you do that for me?”

Dwalin simply looks at him and nods.

“I need you to promise me that no matter how crazy everything sounds that I’m about to tell you, you are going to believe me. You are not going to run away and…give up on me.”

“I’m sorry that I ever made you think I would simply give up on you like that,” Dwalin finally says, in a very quiet tone. “I can’t – every time I go to sleep I still see you bleeding out on the floor. Every time a tree branch hits the window I jump up in bed, thinking someone has come to kill you again. And for you to blatantly deny that you feel similarly and refuse to act on it…”

Dwalin stops, frowning, before he takes another spoonful of soup.

“It made me feel weak. Inadequate. As if I could never be enough for you. And that made me angry. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Thorin tells him. “I should have trusted you sooner. I should have told you…about everything. Will you bear with me now, even if it comes far too late?”

Dwalin nods and reaches out to run his fingers briefly over Thorin’s hand before he continues eating. And so Thorin tells him. It takes him well into the main course of their meal to lay everything out in front of his husband – he leaves nothing out, not even the most incredulous and hurtful details so that Dwalin can decide for himself what he wants to think about all of this. He is barely able to swallow his food when he finally finishes as his throat seems to contract in sudden nervousness. Dwalin hasn’t said a single word throughout his entire tirade and Thorin has been able to speak freely – but now all his fear comes crashing back into him, especially when Dwalin doesn’t say anything at all at first.

“Sorry,” Dwalin says. “Give me just a moment…to work through this. That’s a lot of stuff I didn’t expect to hear.”

Thorin nods.

“So you’re saying that…you should be…” Dwalin swallows again, visibly has to force himself to say the next word. “…dead? But that somehow you aren’t. And that this boy named Frodo saw you when you were dead because he can see dead people? So you went to find him and help him?”

“Pretty much. Yeah. Uhm.”

“That sounds like the plot for one hell of a movie,” Dwalin finally says, leaning back in his chair.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Thorin smiles a little. “So…do you believe me?”

Dwalin exhales loudly, stretching his arms over his head.

“Honestly? I have no clue. But…I know you, better than anyone else on this earth, save perhaps Dís. And I know you would never lie to me, especially not about this. So whether it’s true or not…you _think_ it’s true. I’m not sure if it’s something your mind made up to help you cope or if it’s reality, but…good enough for now, I guess. Especially since Frodo seemed to truly be able to help that little girl and I’m not sure how else he would have known.”

“Then you don’t think that I’ve lost it completely?” Thorin wants to reassure himself.

“Was that what you were afraid of?” Dwalin asks him quietly.

“Yes.”

“Well.” Dwalin rolls his shoulders slightly. “I can’t say that I believe you completely but…I do know _you_. And I’d prefer to think that maybe something slightly impossible became possible – especially if it means that you stayed with me instead of dying. Do you…do you think I could meet Frodo at some point?”

“I’m sure that would be fine,” Thorin smiles again, feeling as if a giant weight has been lifted off his chest. Of course Dwalin doesn’t fully believe him yet and it’s going to be a lot of work to convince him that everything is true, but it’s a start.

“But…Thorin.” Dwalin proceeds very carefully with his next few words, as if he isn’t quite sure how to express them. “Those feelings of detesting yourself for what happened, of feeling like a failure? Of not feeling safe in your own house, seeing Azog everywhere and the littlest thing going wrong sending you in a panic? The professional inside you should agree with me that that has nothing to do with what you just told me.”

Thorin evades Dwalin’s gaze and cuts himself another slice of the meatloaf. Only then does he look up again, directly into his husband’s worried eyes.

“I’m-“ he reflexively wants to defend himself, wants to tell Dwalin once more that he can deal with this himself, he’s fine really, he just needs some time, but then he stops. He remembers the absolute panic on the day when he had taken Dwalin in the kitchen for an intruder, how there still hasn’t been a single night that he has been able to sleep through. And, finally, Dwalin’s words again. _You don’t need to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders alone_.

“I am so tired,” he whispers instead. “So tired of my mind making up phantoms where there are none. So tired of constantly living in fear and shame with all those thoughts screaming in my head. I’m so exhausted.”

He doesn’t even realise that he has started trembling and that there is a wet glint in his eyes. Dwalin gets up from his side of the table and walks over towards him, the wall between them finally beginning to crumble.

“I know,” he says softly, taking Thorin’s hands into his and bringing their foreheads together. “I know. I am tired, too.”

Thorin doesn’t even realise that they are both crying until he sees the tears falling from Dwalin’s eyes and can feel the wetness on his own cheeks. They clench each other’s hands as if they are the lifeline keeping them afloat.

“Maybe if we both are, then we should try and get better together,” Thorin says, his voice still choking slightly. “I haven’t overheard what you said earlier, you know. About not being able to shake the images. Maybe…we both need help.”

He knows that this an enormous step for Dwalin as well – it’s always easier to tell others that they need help, but hard to apply the same standards to yourself.

“Maybe, yes.” Dwalin leans even further into him and after a moment of hesitation and a miniscule nod from Thorin their lips meet. The kiss is salty and still full of desperation, a whirlwind of a variety of different feelings. But with it comes something that Thorin think he hasn’t felt properly in month – hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, they’ll be able to get through this if they just try and do so together.


	12. Chapter 12

“Oooookay, are you ready Frodo?” Bilbo looks down at his nephew, barely able to conceal the pride in his eyes. Frodo grins and looks up at him with a nod. It warms Bilbo’s heart to see him smile so widely and he immediately feels an answering one on his own lips.

“Yeah!” Frodo tells his uncle. “Look, I even got the present!”

“Yes you do!” Bilbo laughs with a look at the big paper bag in Frodo’s hands. They have thought very thoroughly about what they could bring as a present to the dinner tonight, and Frodo had finally decided that maybe he could help Bilbo bake something? Some cookies that they can eat for dessert, or even later. Bilbo of course agreed with his nephew – and has secretly called Thorin and Dwalin beforehand to let them know not to do any fancy desserts. Or at least one that goes well with M&M cookies.

Bilbo still doesn’t quite know how he should feel about this dinner. Of course he’s looking forward to it, but he’s met Dwalin only briefly so far and whenever he and Thorin were talking it was mostly about Frodo. He isn’t quite sure how he’s going to fill an entire evening with conversation. However, Thorin had insisted on inviting them, saying he owed Frodo more than words could say and that he owed Bilbo an apology as well, for lying to him and tumbling so quickly into their lives. Bilbo shakes his head; if anything, he should be the one grateful to him, for the change in Frodo is apparent, even if he still isn’t one hundred percent convinced that his little nephew can see the dead, despite the story about his mother.

 Sometimes he thinks he has been thrown into a strange story, stranger than he could ever imagine – dead people, people who should be dead and aren’t, and the living trying to navigate everything like a particularly precarious labyrinth. Then, however, he looks down at Frodo and sees the slowly growing confidence and happiness in his eyes and thinks that somehow, no matter if it’s the truth or not, he will accept it as long as it means his nephew is no longer afraid. It’s hard to believe that Frodo now and the frightened boy nine months ago are the same person.

It’s Frodo who gets the honour of ringing the doorbell. He steps back and forth from his left leg to his right as they are waiting. Bilbo thinks he can hear a faint shout inside of ‘Dwalin, can you go get the door?’ but he isn’t sure about it until the door opens moments later and a rather large, muscly man with a bald head appears, wearing an apron and cleaning his hands.

“Heya, come in! Good to see you again, Frodo,” he smiles down at Frodo, a big wide smile that automatically makes him seem friendly. The he turns to Bilbo. “Hello, sorry, I should probably introduce myself. Dwalin.” They shake hands and Bilbo introduces himself in return. “I’m sorry Thorin couldn’t come to the door, he’s running around in the kitchen right now trying to keep the venison from burning…”

“It’s not burning! Just a tad crispy!” Thorin’s voice can be heard shouting from the kitchen. Dwalin simply raises his eyebrows and leaves it at that. Frodo laughs and covers his mouth when he remembers how his uncle has told him not to laugh at other people. Bilbo has to bite his lip to keep from breaking out into laughter himself.

Dwalin leads them into the living room and they quickly settle down around the big table. Thorin joins them not long after, giving Frodo a hug and shaking Bilbo’s hand when he greets them. That is when Frodo finally seems to remember the bag in his hand.

“We made something for dessert, look!” Proudly he holds out the bag towards Thorin who takes it and is suitably enthusiastic about the cookies inside. Frodo seems to be delighted that Thorin likes them so much. He is even more delighted when he spies the cat at the entrance to the living room.

“Can I pet her?” he wants to know and Dwalin laughs.

“Sure. She’s a bit shy around new people, but usually very nice if you’re nice to her, too. Her name is Nat.”

Frodo wanders over to the cat, trying to entice her to come to him and after a while he has indeed managed to make her come close and be able to pet her. Bilbo smiles when he looks at them and wonders if they should get a pet of their own. He’s slightly allergic to cats, but maybe if he goes to a pharmacy tomorrow and asks them…just as long as the cat doesn’t ruin his plants. Maybe he could ask Dwalin and Thorin for advice. He’s never felt the need to marry or even have a romantic relationship, so for him the image of seeing Frodo grow up in his little house, surrounded by plants and maybe a cat has a distinct inkling of paradise.

Dwalin seems to read his thoughts.

“Do you have any pets?” he asks and Bilbo shakes his head.

“Now that I’m seeing this, however, I am thinking that maybe a cat wouldn’t be such a bad idea…”

“Cats are _always_ a good idea,” Dwalin agrees with a little laugh. “If I had the only say in this we’d have ten of them already. Plus probably five dogs.”

“Yet another evidence that my husband loves pets more than me. He’d probably let them sleep in our bed, wouldn’t you,” Thorin interjects, but he is grinning and there is a sparkling in his eyes.

“Of course I would,” Dwalin throws back, completely deadpan. “I mean. Who wouldn’t?”

“Right.” Thorin laughs and Dwalin grins back, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. They actually remind Bilbo quite a bit of his own parents – the way they seem to be completely at ease around each other despite the constant teasing that yet somehow never masks the affection between them. That affection evidently also seems to extend to Frodo by now – if Bilbo is Frodo’s new parent then Thorin and Dwalin would be his favourite uncles that he likes to spend time with. Bilbo knows that Thorin still helps him with counselling, although their sessions are rather informal (and as far as Bilbo knows, Thorin doesn’t charge for them) and recently Thorin has begun to introduce Frodo to his own two nephews, Fíli and Kíli who seem to have adopted him almost like a brother despite being quite a bit older.

The dinner passes with laughter and a variety of very good food. Bilbo has to admit that he’s quite impressed by Dwalin’s and Thorin’s cooking skills and even though he knows he certainly isn’t a bad cook himself Frodo causes some slight embarrassment when he asks why _they_ don’t ever make things like this at home. Bilbo has to promise him that next time, they will be the ones hosting a dinner with Dwalin and Thorin and will make something just as impressive in return.

“Thank you so much for coming,” Thorin tells the two of them with a smile when the end of the evening draws near and Bilbo and Frodo have to get home so that Frodo can go to bed.

“Well, thanks for having us. It was a great evening,” Bilbo smiles back and laughs as Frodo steps forward to give Thorin a hug.

 “Yes! Uncle Bilbo, can I come back to play with Nat soon?” Frodo asks once he has finished hugging Thorin.

“Of course you can, but shouldn’t you ask Thorin and Dwalin that?” Bilbo laughs. Frodo looks slightly abashed and then repeats the question to the two men standing there. Dwalin laughs in reply.

“I am sure she’d love you to come back,” he reassures Frodo. Frodo lets out a happy giggle and bends down to pet the cat once more.

“Thank you again,” Bilbo tells Thorin as they shake hands. “For everything you’ve done for him.”

“It was my pleasure,” Thorin smiles. Bilbo isn’t sure whether he can’t see a slight echo of past pain in those eyes. “In a way he saved me, no, _us_ , too.”

The last few words are directed at Dwalin and Bilbo can see that their fingers are intertwined. He wonders what happened, but also knows that he isn’t in the position to ask. He and Frodo wave goodbye to Thorin and Dwalin and Bilbo just can’t help but smile when he sees Frodo skip down the sidewalk in front of him. Paradise, indeed.

*

“What a good evening.” Dwalin yawns and lets himself fall down on the sofa next to Thorin. They’ve just finished clearing the table and putting everything into the dishwasher that is now emitting its calming rumble in the kitchen. 

“Mhm,” Thorin sighs happily as Dwalin drops his head on Thorin’s shoulder. Thorin turns his face and kisses the top of Dwalin’s bald head, drawing out a satisfied little groan from his husband.

“…even though you burned the venison,” Dwalin adds after a moment, a cheeky grin running across his face. Thorin punches him slightly in the ribs, snorting indignantly.

“I did _not_. It was just extra crispy. Because _you_ forgot to turn on the timer.”

“Excuses,” Dwalin mumbles with laughter in his voice. “The others might think differently, but I will always know who the true culprit is and never let you forget!”

“Ah, I am so wounded.” Thorin dramatically presses his hand on his chest. “Remind me, why did I marry you again?”

“Because I’m the most fetching bi dude in this entire country,” Dwalin yawns. His voice grows more serious when he continues. “And because we have proven that we can get through quite a lot more things than we’d ever imagined if we just work together.”

Thorin puts his hand over Dwalin’s and intertwines their fingers with a smile, pressing another kiss on Dwalin’s head.

“Yes,” he says simply. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

“Well…” Dwalin squeezes Thorin’s hand. “You’re the most stubborn man I’ve ever met and that’s saying something coming from me. Wouldn’t do any good if I gave up so quickly, no? And thank you for putting up with own bullshit as well.”

“Mhmmmmm always.” Thorin smiles softly to himself. Despite their happiness now, the past months haven’t been easy for either of them. Knowing how therapy works in theory whilst sitting on one side and actually experiencing it as a patient are two completely different things, although Thorin hopes that he can use some of the experience on his own patients now. There are scars that will never disappear – they’ve cut off half the tree in front of their house so they won’t hear the sound of branches beating on their window anymore and gotten extra security locks for their doors, for example. The nightmares will never fully disappear either – but what they do have achieved they hold on to as tightly as they can. And it has been a while since Thorin has felt like he isn’t in the right place anymore, as If helping Frodo had finally cleared up the chaos his not-death has caused. 

For a while they only lie in amiable silence, Dwalin still comfortably pressed into Thorin’s side. There’s a meow and Nat joins them, looking jealously at Dwalin as she jumps up on Thorin’s lap and demands more attention for herself, only mollified when both Dwalin and Thorin reach out at the same time to pet her.

“This is how I want to grow old.” Thorin is surprised that he’s speaking the words that have been only in his head so far aloud. But if there is one thing that he has learned this summer, it’s that he should voice his thoughts, not only the negative ones, but all the positive ones as well. “With good food and both a cat and my husband in my lap.”

Dwalin turns around and the surge of affection in his eyes is quickly replaced by lewdness as he pokes Thorin’s groin.

“In your lap? Anything particular you want me to do down there?”

Thorin groans and punches him softly in the shoulder.

“You just destroyed a perfectly romantic moment.”

“You’re welcome.” He turns back around again and, with another pat of Thorin’s groin, snuggles back into his chest again. Thorin shakes his head and shifts slightly so that Dwalin can lie more comfortably.

Yes. This is how he wants to grow old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this, we have come to the end of this story! Apologies that I only managed a 12 chapter fic this year, but 24 would have been too much, I think, both in terms of me finding time to write it and in terms of what this story contains. I wanted to thank you all so, so, so much for sticking with me and my writing through this year and especially for being so passionate about this fic - I don't think I've ever gotten this many comments on a fic whilst publishing it and it genuinely means more than words could say (also apologies for not having been able to reply to them these past few days, looooots of stuff going on. I'll get to it, I promise!). Thank you <3\. 
> 
> I wish you all Happy Holidays and may you arrive well in the new year!


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